Heart & Music
by SeverEstHolmes
Summary: A series of one shots all inspired from each line of "Heart & Music" from the Musical 'A New Brain' . Not continuous from each other, but a mix of fluff, angst, Kid!lock, Teen!lock, Johnlock and a healthy measure of music! Mainly Sherlock and John, but other characters such as Mycroft and Greg also crop up too!
1. Of Passion

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything else that the great ACD created. I also hold no rights over the BBC adaptations and additions of characters!**

**A/N: This is the first in a series of non-continuous one shots, all inspired from the song "Heart & Music" which is in the musical **'A New Brain'. **I would highly recommend checking it out as it is fantastic. But you don't have to- you could just enjoy the stories on their own. Enjoy!**_**  
**_

* * *

**Stories of Passion  
**

_'It's goodbye to the shortcuts, hello to the grind._

_ No body ever said it would be an easy ride._

_ Suffer for your art.'_

He wasn't sure whether he had read that somewhere, or whether he had made it up in his own head: it was most likely the former as he remembered the phrase causing some confusion in the past. _'Suffer for your art.'_

Sherlock had come across the quote as an adolescent and , up until that point he had worked academically in those interests that he enjoyed, but to _suffer _for something you enjoyed... it seemed utterly paradoxical to Sherlock's fifteen year old mind. Why would you want to put yourself through agony over something that you really enjoyed? Sherlock loved his music, he adored revelling in science and discovery, but in neither of those areas had he ever pushed himself so he was in pain over them – they came naturally to him. The only thing which had ever caused him discomfort was his social awkwardness and he was pretty convinced that that was a result of his upbringing; but even then it had never caused him suffering – or really many problems at all. Social situations weren't his forte, Mycroft was much better at that sort of thing.

Sherlock had reckoned his life's goals would probably lie in the areas of science, probably chemistry or genomal biology or something... he had made plans; there was the ambition and the prospect of a Nobel Prize for sure! But that wasn't the way things turned out...

It hadn't been until he turned twenty-two that he discovered what his true "art" was, and what it it actually meant to suffer for something you love. School hadn't gone too badly for him, but university – well, the monotony had gotten to him in the end; he had needed something to keep him going, to make his life interesting once more! And that something had been cocaine, and then it became a habit, and he had used up all his student loan on it – and he was in debt and behind on all his coursework, and then kicked out... All of those dreams he had once thought he was capable of, a Nobel Prize, all those things; they slipped through his outstretched fingers as easily as though they were grains of sand.

So instead of being bathed in glory and admiration from the academic world, he found himself squatting in an abandoned lemonade factory, most nights being so cold that sleep was an impossibility, and constantly thinking of the next fix... oh how things had changed from his plans, how much he had let himself down.

But in his time whilst living rough he made the casual acquaintance of a young policeman, Morton by name, who had – on several occasions – picked him up when he had been in a stupor from the cold, or the drugs.

Eventually Morton came to trust him, came to appreciate the cleverness that Sherlock displayed when he was in a clear mind and it was at that point that Sherlock exhibited powers as a detective of facts. As a result of a throw-away comment Sherlock had made, Morton had managed to solve a case that had been bugging him for weeks – and that had opened a new avenue for Sherlock. But to get into that avenue meant a long hard slog for Sherlock to get clean from drugs and find himself somewhere to live before he could liaise on official police work. Sherlock had to swallow his pride and ask Mycroft to help him.

The point of turning his life around – as he went through violent withdrawal and rehabilitation, and fought against the urge to slip back into the comfort blanket which had been his habit – was where it really hit home what it meant to suffer for something you really want. But the arduous road had been worth it when that first case which the police had sent his way had been solved: and the buzz that he experienced from riddling out the twists and turns had been equal to that which the cocaine used to supply him with.

Establishing himself as _"the world's only consulting detective" _hadn't been easy either – Mycroft had scorned that choice of profession; the police had been incredibly wary of him at first, except from Morton, as most of them associated him with the drug addled homeless person he had used to be rather than for his ability to solve crimes. It took nearly three years for him to make a proper connection with the police force and for them to trust him... Three years, in which very little work came his way, and more than once he was almost tempted back into his cocaine habit. Abstaining was a challenge, but one he rose to in order to continue on with his work. When the cases came his way they were more than worth the fight he had to put in to keep receiving them.

Then he had met John, just as his career had begun to take off, and that had made the difficulties that he had opposed worth it. He had always refused to work with someone, but John brought a different element – a different aspect to everything that he did – and it made him work better. Every so often he remembered that quote: _'Suffer for your art'_, and he had gained a new appreciation of what that meant.

On the rooftop of St. Bart's Sherlock was recalled to that quote, and about for his art he was not the one who was going to suffer, but John was. His art was his work and his relationship with John... It didn't fit... It wasn't art, it shouldn't be _'Suffer for your art'_; it should be '_Suffer for your passion'_.

* * *

_**A/N: Next one will be entitled: "Of Friendship."**_


	2. Of Friendship

**A/N: Following on from _Of Passion, _here is the second line from the song! Kid!lock. I would mind a review or two if you're reading this (always looking to improve!). Enjoy!**

* * *

**Of Friendship.**

"But why?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he dragged his little brother along behind him;' this was the five-year-olds favourite question at the moment, everything had to be _'but why'_-ed before they could progress.

"You have to go to school to learn, Sherlock." Mycroft replied in an age weary way, as he had said this several times before this week in the run up to Sherlock starting school for the first time. Sherlock was pouting and dragging his feet along behind him on the pavement in protest to Mycroft trying to hurry him up.

"But- " Sherlock started again, but Mycroft cut over him.

"Because Eleanor can't keep teaching you on your own, you need to go to school with a proper teacher and other children and you'll learn things all together and make friends." Sherlock ripped his hand out of Mycroft's bigger one and crossed arms across his chest, pouting expertly.

"But why can't I do that with Eleanor?" He protested vehemently. Mycroft sighed, he was going to be late if he didn't deliver Sherlock to the school with time to spare to get to the senior section; he knelt down in front of Sherlock.

"Eleanor spoke to you about this, don't you remember Sherlock? She'll be at home when you get back from school – but you need to go and be with people the same age as you and learn things with them in class." Mycroft said gently, putting his hands on the outside of Sherlock's upper arms to try and coax him back into movement again.

"But what if I don't want to go to school?" Sherlock whispered, portraying more anxiety than stubbornness.

"You have to, otherwise Mummy and Daddy and Eleanor will get in trouble for you not going." Mycroft answered, "And I'm sure you'll like it Sherlock! If you tell your teacher that you like pirates she might help you learn some more about them."

"And ancient Egypt?" Sherlock muttered, allowing Mycroft to take his hand and begin to guide him again.

"Yep, maybe ancient Egypt too. And maybe some of your classmates will play pirates with you at break time." Mycroft encouraged. "Does that sound alright?"

"I suppose." Sherlock mumbled, as though he didn't quite want to admit that it sounded exciting.

At the school gates Mycroft bent down in front of Sherlock again and straightened out his blazer and tie, at which Sherlock squirmed as though he was in discomfort. Although he looked like he was trying to pull away from Mycroft's restraining hands, the look in his eyes showed how scared he was of all these other children around, some of which were much bigger than he was.

"You have to go in now, but I'll come round and see you at break time – make sure everything's alright." Mycroft reassured Sherlock, who nodded whilst biting his bottom lip. "You'll be fine Sherlock, you love learning with Eleanor – this is just bigger so you can learn more!" Sherlock didn't look convinced as Mycroft turned him round and pushed him through the school gates.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" A young woman with long chestnut hair had bent down in front of Sherlock as he was herded into a classroom. He nodded whilst looking around, and noting that most of the other kids his age were there with their parents, but he had been sent with Mycroft. The young woman smiled: "I'm Miss Carstairs, I'm your teacher this year. If you come over here with me I'll get you settled at your table before we start." She led Sherlock over to a small table with four seats around it – one of which already occupied by a blonde girl. "This is Catherine, she's going to be sitting at your table this term. Catherine, this is Sherlock. How about you sit down too Sherlock and you can colour something in until everyone is sat down?" Sherlock took what appeared to be his seat – it had his name laminated and stuck onto the wood of the desk with cellotape – while the teacher disappeared off to help with some child who was screaming. Catherine, the blonde girl in the seat diagonally across from Sherlock was colouring in with an excessively sharpened pencil. It seemed it was going to take an awfully long time for Miss Carstairs to get everyone in their seats and settled with something.

Meanwhile, the two vacant seats at the table Sherlock was seated at had been filled by a girl and a boy. The boy looked slightly older than most of the others in the class – maybe he was in the wrong room, Sherlock thought. The boy drew a sheet of paper towards him and picked up one of the coloured pencils that were littered across the table top. Sherlock noticed that the boy threw him several nervous glances, but always looked away quickly when he noticed Sherlock was looking back. On the fourth time that Sherlock caught the boy's eyes he cleared his throat before saying quietly:

"Hi." The boy seemed to check that Sherlock was actually talking to him by glancing at the two girls at the table and, seeing them chattering to each other, smiled.

"Hi." He responded. Sherlock wasn't quite sure of how to progress this conversation; this sort of thing wasn't his strong point.

"Uuh, my name is Sherlock." He said finally.

"I'm John." John replied, still colouring in his picture – much more haphazardly now.

"How old are you?" Sherlock asked quite abruptly.

"I'm six next week." John wriggled in his chair and scratched at his incredibly short, sandy-coloured hair.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Year 2?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yeah." John nodded. "But my dad is in the Navy so we moved about a lot last year and I didn't get to start school." John explained, he didn't look too impressed about this situation, but Sherlock's eyes had widened.

"Your dad's in the Navy? Wow! That's so cool – like, does he get to go on ships like pirates?" John seemed genuinely baffled; clearly this was not the response that he was used to. "Have you been on a ship?"

"Yeah, I visited once before he went away." John said.

"Cool!" Sherlock breathed in awe, staring with wide eyes at John across the table. Then before he could stop the words coming out he had blurted: "Do you like pirates?"

"Yeah." John answered.

"Do you want to play pirates at break?!" Sherlock questioned enthusiastically. John's face had broken into a massive grin, but before he had the time to reply Miss Carstairs had started to speak to the class as a whole.

Sherlock was kicking his heels against the side of the low wall that he was sitting on; Mycroft had to go looking for Sherlock before he could find him.

"Come on Sherlock." Mycroft called across the deserted playground to his little brother. "I thought you'd be desperate to get home and see Eleanor." Sherlock didn't move from his place atop the wall, so Mycroft had to cross the concrete football pitch to where Sherlock was sitting.

"Do we have to go home?" Sherlock asked Mycroft, a small hint of disappointment in his voice.

"Yes Sherlock, we have to go home and get dinner and see Eleanor and go to bed." Mycroft answered, feeling confused at his brother's rapid change around from when they were going to school in the morning. "But we are coming back tomorrow."

"Are we?" Sherlock brightened up when he heard Mycroft say that. "Will John be here tomorrow?" Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

"Who's John?" He asked.

"He sits across from me in class and he played pirates with me." Sherlock said, as though that explained everything.

"Oh, so is he your friend?" The thought had suddenly dawned on Mycroft.

"Yeah." Sherlock agreed. "So I'll be able to play pirates again tomorrow?"

"Yeah, come on." Mycroft coaxed Sherlock off the wall. "We can go home and you can tell Eleanor all about playing pirates with John."

* * *

**A/N: Next installment will be entitled: _Tales of How Romance Survives._**


	3. Tales of How Romance Survives

**A/N: Established Johnlock! Thanks for the reviews! Enjoy! :)**

* * *

**Tales of How Romance Survive.  
**

The word _'romance'_ was not in Sherlock Holmes' vocabulary. Not even after five years in a relationship with John, the concept of a romantic relationship had not grown or even taken hold in his mind. Sexually he was incredibly adept, so much so that John sometimes believed their entire relationship could be built upon the fire and passion which stemmed from the two of them in the bedroom. But he knew that an entire relationship shouldn't be based on sex, there had to be an emotional side. Somewhere deep down inside of John's "emotional" side there was definitely a romantic edge that he was hopelessly subverse to.

So in the run up to their five year anniversary John decided that it would have to be him that did something romantic… Working in a GP surgery doing clinic hours gave him the perfect opportunity to arrange something for the both of them, without Sherlock perpetually looking over his shoulder or checking his internet history when he couldn't be bothered collecting his own laptop from his bedroom.

And with the decision to do something, John took a lot of thought over what he could do… A meal out at some kind of expensive restaurant? But then Sherlock didn't always eat… so would a restaurant be the best option? A trip away? But then whenever Sherlock was fully immersed in a case he refused to leave… and what if it just so happened that he got a case before the weekend of their anniversary? It seemed that everything that John thought of threw up some kind of problem. Though, living with Sherlock, he should be used to that by now… but he still wasn't, not even after these years in a relationship.

_'Five years.'_ Sherlock thought to himself, five years had to mean something – apart from the solidifying his knowledge that he and John were right for one another. Five years deserved some kind of special celebration, and Sherlock knew the way that John's mind worked.

As much as John tried to hide it, really he was just a ball of sentimental fluff on the inside; he would read romance novels and watch romcoms when Sherlock wasn't in the flat. He was always the first to suggest things to those (like Greg) who ever dared to mention relationships in his presence. John _loved _romance. Sherlock was sure that John loved the idea of someone thinking completely selflessly and sweeping the other person off their feet.

The only problem was that Sherlock wasn't like that at all… The whole concept of romance was a strange one for his brain to fathom; but for John, he would try to understand it… especially to say thank you to him for John's persevering care and companionship throughout their relationship, even when Sherlock had been a right dick at times. Sherlock's desire to prove that he could be romantic, that he could do something completely unexpected and out of the ordinary, for his partner led to him considering sucking up his annoyance and asking Mycroft for help…

One week before their anniversary date and John was panicking… he still hadn't come to any kind of conclusion about what he could do that was "romantic", but that wouldn't infuriate Sherlock too much… It appeared that in the short period of time that he had tried to think of something to do for the both of him, that every romantic bone and fibre of his body had evaporated. Maybe he should just do a complete U-turn and do the opposite of what Sherlock would expect of him? Something so gratuitously sexual that Sherlock would be utterly shocked… Yes, maybe that would be the way to go! Yes! In a spur of the moment thought he had made a snap decision that he was going to do something sexually explorative with Sherlock. He wondered whether he'd be able to find out any of Sherlock's kinks – bondage perhaps? His riding crop? Or maybe food? It would _definitely _give him something to think about in the next week before their anniversary.

Sherlock, however, had bit his lip, sucked up his pride and gone to Mycroft to ask for help. And Mycroft had gratefully obliged by giving help – but not without hiding his smugness. But eventually after two very painful meetings with Mycroft, everything was sorted out… Mycroft had helped Sherlock choose a romantic location and booked a trip away over the weekend so they could celebrate. He had booked a cottage, arranged for champagne to be delivered, and candles – and pretty much everything else that he could possibly conceive of. He even refused what would have been a lucrative case to make sure that everything was totally planned out for Friday evening when they would be picked up by one of Mycroft's cars and driven to the cottage.

John was under the impression that Sherlock was dealing with a case, that was the reason for his secrecy… it was kind of normal for Sherlock. But there was no question about it – John had managed to get Thursday (which was their actual anniversary) off from the GP's surgery, so Sherlock was _going _to stay in and submit to his will.

John's heart was hammering in his chest as he stood in the hallway outside Sherlock's room very early on Thursday morning. He had been standing outside the door for a couple of minutes before he took a deep breath and pushed open the door; only to find Sherlock pacing the length of his room hitting a slim strip of paper in between his hands, he started when he saw John standing in the doorway. There was a pause where the two of them stared at each other, and then they were in each other's arms, kissing fiercely. When they broke apart John stared up at his taller boyfriend and noticed that Sherlock was smiling.

"Five years." Sherlock stated rather matter of factly. "Who would have thought?" John nodded.

"I've – uh, got today off work… I thought we could have some fun." John told him, running his hand suggestively along the inside of Sherlock's thigh.

"You've got this weekend off too…" Sherlock replied, shuddering slightly as John's touch gave him shivers. John pulled away suddenly and looked confused. "I've booked us a weekend trip to a cottage in the lack district…" Sherlock told him, lowering his mouth to gently kiss John's neck. "Candles, champagne… the lot."

Somewhere in the midst of John, that ball of romantic fluff appeared to have been rekindled inside his chest, and he was almost so happy that he could feel tears welling up in his eyes.

"You… Sherlock, you don't do romance!" He exclaimed in surprise.

"But _you _do." Sherlock replied, giving a small smirk. "And five years is something to celebrate. So if you do romance, just this once – so do I."

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter is: _Stories of Yesses. _**


	4. Of Yesses

**A/N: Established Johnlock from the start; this probably is categorized as fluff! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Stories of Yesses**

It wasn't at all how Sherlock had planned it. Actually, that was incorrect – Sherlock hadn't planned it at all, so when it happened it came not just as a surprise for John, but for himself as well.

It was thirteen minutes past two on a Monday morning and John had just caught up with Sherlock who was leaning against a wall. They had been chasing after someone who they thought had been a suspect in a case – but despite Sherlock's intimate knowledge of the streets of London he had caught them unawares by slipping down a side alley which by the time Sherlock had gotten to the end of it the suspect had vanished. Sherlock had cursed bitterly at losing him when they were so close to catching the guy; he had still been grumbling when John had caught up with him.

"There's no point now!" Sherlock exclaimed, gesticulating wildly to John. "There could be any number of directions that he could have gone!" He sighed heavily. "We might as well go back to the flat now… We're not going to catch him tonight." Sherlock did a small circle where he was standing, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets and scowling in every direction that the culprit could have escaped via… John knew that consoling words would do nothing but irritate Sherlock, so he kept his mouth clamped shut and looked at his watch so it didn't appear like he was just blanking Sherlock.

"Right, yes, back to the flat." John agreed, realising that he had to be up in six hours for work. Sherlock slipped his hand into John's as they began to walk back towards the flat. Normally John would have pulled away, he wasn't altogether keen on public displays of affection, but it was past 2am and the majority of people out on the street were so drunk that John would probably be seeing them tomorrow at work.

"You're thinking about work." Sherlock stated as they walked, doing his usual mind reading thing.

"I'm thinking whether I could hide in the cleaners' cupboard and sleep." John tried to make it a joke.

"You don't have to come out for every case." Sherlock said and John smiled weakly, knowing that this was Sherlock trying to be considerate.

"I wouldn't miss this for the world Sherlock." John laughed, how many times he had said that to Sherlock in the past couple of years!

"Then why don't you give up your job at the surgery and come back to the cases full time?" Sherlock suggested, but this was a subject that they had spoken about in the past and disagreed over.

"Sherlock, we've already talked about this." John sighed.

"But… Do you not think I've got enough money to support us both?" He had said this before, and it almost hurt John's pride.

"Not with your cases." John scoffed.

"I don't mean with my cases, they're just a bonus." Sherlock dismissed. "I have enough money for the both of us from now until the end of time!"

John agreed that there wasn't as much of a financial pressure upon him now than there was when there had just been flatmates. Being in a relationship made the division of finances and other things slightly less impending on John's mind.

"But that's not the issue." John attempted to explain in a rational way. "My job is part of my identity Sherlock, just like yours is to you. And it gives me security… just in case something happens."

"Do you expect us to break up?" John winced, Sherlock was always so candid about the more sensitive issues.

"That's not what I mean Sherlock." John answered quietly. "We don't know the future and we don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, so it's nice to have a bit of security just in case." Sherlock's brow had furrowed as he thought intensely about what John had just said.

"Would you feel more comfortable if we sorted something out legally?" Sherlock almost breezed this suggestion as though it was really natural.

"Ha! Would you get one of Mycroft's lawyer buddies to draft something up for us, would you?" John gave Sherlock's hand a jovial squeeze.

"Well no… that's not really what I meant." The crease in between Sherlock's eyes had deepened as he spoke. "I was kind of suggesting that we should get a civil partnership or something…"

John stopped so abruptly that Sherlock nearly tripped over with his hand being wrenched, he turned to look at John seemingly confused and sheepish by the manner in which John was just staring at him.

"Am I going deaf or delusional?" John asked eventually in a slightly creaky voice. "Did… Sherlock, are you _proposing _to me?"

"Uuh…" Sherlock was grinning looking slightly uncomfortable, and rubbing the back of his hair with his free hand. "I didn't think of it like that… but essentially, yes."

"And you mean it like a proposal?" John could feel his heart rapidly ascending into his mouth and beating so fast he was convinced that it might explode.

"Well, I plan on staying with you… and if it's the financial and legal side of things that is concerning you, then why not get a civil partnership and correct that?"

"So you seriously mean it?" John re-asked, struggling to take the information in and looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock paused, and suddenly it seemed to click inside his head:

"John – I love you, I want to be with you and I want to prove that to you. Will you get a civil partnership with me?" Sherlock asked firmly.

"Yeah…" John replied weakly, then cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, yes Sherlock!" John leant up to meet his boyfriend's lips to show just how firm his yes was. "Oh god, yes…"

* * *

**A/N: Next one is entitled: _Of F__rogs Making Messes_**


	5. Of Frogs Making Messes

**A/N: So, here's another little oneshot for you :) Little bit of fun- hope you will see the hilarity in it, as I REALLY enjoyed writing it!**

* * *

**Frogs Making Messes**

'_Sherlock Holmes I am __not __clearing up your mess! You get back here and remove your exploded frog or whatever it is!' –JW._

The skin of an epipedobate secretes a toxic substance that, in foreign countries, was used to coat the tips of arrows in order to debilitate prey when a hunter was catching it. The use of these poisons were commonly known about in the South America's, but not really known about in Europe or Britain so there was a scope for intelligent criminals to use them for murders of GBH with very little chance of being caught or suspected.

Unfortunately for most intelligent criminals, Sherlock had been incredibly fascinated by frogs as a boy growing up in the country with a pond located at the edge of his garden. Although he was no longer intensely fascinated by the creatures – he had absorbed quite a lot of information about them and the different sub-species. So when it just so happened that a young man was found sprawled in an alleyway with a needle prick about the size of a pin behind the back of his ear, Lestrade was glad to have Sherlock's assistance to noticing that it wasn't a random death of natural causes.

Sherlock had persuaded Molly to give him a report from the post-mortem so that he could find out what sub-species of frog that the poison had come from, and what the quantity must have been to render a young man in the prime of his life, entirely incapacitated to the point where his heart failed. Sherlock was convinced that it would to be quite a fair amount of actual poison, so that was where he was willing to test his theory. Through calling in a favour he was able to obtain four frogs all from the same species, only with small variations, to test upon – and that was where it all went wrong.

He knew that John would be out all day, so he set up his lab early in the morning and began the process to extract the chemicals from the (at that time) living frogs. It was fine until he put the centrifuge on to separate the components of the toxin, and became bored at waiting for the machine to complete its job. Out of pure curiosity he filled his syringe with pure oxygen out of his canister and proceeded to inject it into two of the four frogs. He had had an idea of what might occur if he did this, but he just wanted to check it out and see if he was correct in this thinking.

He had been correct… But he hadn't predicted how messy the outcome would be. Injecting the two frogs with even the tiniest amount of air appeared to have put their system into distress: which they then reacted to by exploding… Everywhere.

Sherlock glanced around, taking in the splattered frog intestines on the ceiling of the kitchen, the other body parts and fluids that were now all over the counters and walls; and was pretty certain that John would go ballistic if he arrived to see this. Without a fraction of a second's hesitation, Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Maybe if he left for a bit, and waited until after he knew John would get home and have had time to calm down then it would all be alright.

The city of London is vast; more than vast enough to provide Sherlock with three hours of occupation until he knew for sure that John would be back and had enough time to have worked the anger caused by the state of the kitchen out of his system. However, Sherlock was informed to the moment that John arrived back at the flat to an angry text ordering him to come back and clean up his mess. If he waited another half an hour then it was sure that John would have probably calmed down, and possibly cleaned up also!

While ascending the stairs of the flat Sherlock could smell the pungent odour of disinfectant and knew that John must have cleaned some of it up at least.

"You are a dick of the highest degree Sherlock." John was sat in his armchair, and he didn't even bother to look round at Sherlock as he entered the room. "I will not continually clean up after you, especially when it's bloody exploded frog or whatever the hell that thing was!"

"Exploded frog, yes." Sherlock replied quite placidly, attempting to not further anger John, but clearly not doing a very amenable job.

"Next time you do something like that I'm not going to come back to the flat until you've dealt with the mess! You're not a child, you make a mess – you clean up afterwards!" John turned in his chair to frown in Sherlock's general direction; reluctantly Sherlock nodded as to show he had understood. Once he felt he had been in the disapproving stare of John for long enough, he turned into the now, mercifully, clean kitchen to check the centrifuge machine that he had left spinning after the frog had exploded. The spinning had come to an end now, and the glass test tubes inside it were sitting very still – one of which pertaining to the exact information that Sherlock needed to clear up the case.

"Fantastic!" He murmured to himself, but not quietly enough for John not to hear him.

"What is fantastic?" John snapped harshly.

"In my hand I have the answer for Lestrade about the man found in the Highburgh Junction alley." Sherlock answered, bringing the small glass tube round to show John.

"The poison dart case?" John asked, some interest twigging in his voice now.

"Yeah, and I can give the name of the person responsible over to Lestrade now so he can deal with the whole legal side of things." Sherlock smiled and sat down into his armchair.

"And you got all that from a frog?" John seemed blown away.

"Yes." John shook his head in an amused gesture of disbelief and there was a small silence. "Now all I have to do is explain to the guy I borrowed these off of that I kind of… well, exploded two of them…"

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be entitled: _Of Poor, Unsuccessful..._**


	6. Of Poor, Unsuccessful

**A/N: Fairly short, but I thought it was a nice bit of background about some of the most important people in the Sherlock canon that we don't often hear about! The "Baker Street Irregulars"! Enjoy! **

* * *

**Of Poor, Unsuccessful...  
**

"Alright Jason, if you can pass the word around – it would be beneficial to you all if I can find this out." Sherlock shook hands and passed a £50 note to the young man in a rather surreptitious manner, but the youth nodded in understanding and left the sitting room of flat 221B. Jason was one of Sherlock's most highly trusted members of the homeless network that he often used as a resource of information. Sherlock's ever increasing number of cases had meant that he couldn't always do all of his research by himself, and this was where his "Baker Street Irregulars" came into the picture because they could find out the information that Sherlock needed and he would pay them well for their services.

John had always found it strange that Sherlock, who was essentially part of the British nobility, used a straggled band of down-and-out men and women as a conveyor belt of information. Mycroft always gave across the impression that he felt uncomfortable when Sherlock alluded to or brought in some of his network into a case; Mycroft believed that his blue blood made him above these people – you could almost sense him itching to wash his hands when he was still in the same room as one of them. The reaction of the two brothers were so different, where Mycroft didn't like them, Sherlock seemed to relatively enjoy their company – like he was used to it. Sherlock saw the inquisitive look on John's face as he watched Jason leaving the flat.

"I lived with Jason at one point." Sherlock said abruptly, breaking into John's unconscious wanderings. "Well, we both stayed in the same factory." He corrected himself; John stared at Sherlock, Sherlock didn't often talk about his past so when he did John listened intently. "He was in the care system but he got kicked out when he was sixteen, so he used to bunk underneath a bridge."

"How did you meet him?" John asked carefully.

"I was bunking under the same bridge." Sherlock answered, leaning back in his chair and resting the tips of his fingers together. "You know something of my past John; you know that I was an addict." Sherlock appeared to be incredibly calm as he spoke about the past, but John knew that it wasn't easy – it wasn't nice for him. "I deferred my final year at uni to go and smoke crack and do other stuff. That's how I met Jason, and Andrew, and Rochelle, and all the people that now make up my network."

"So, they were your friends?" John asked, feeling that he had a bit of a better understanding suddenly.

"I wouldn't say friends… You just, " Sherlock was really thinking about what he was saying. "When you're on the streets you look out for the people on your patch, they're in the same position as you are so you look out for them… And they look out for you. You didn't want to find any of your people attacked, or dead, so you were protective."

"So it was like a bit of a family?"

"I reckon you could look at it like that. I'd been in boarding school from the age of eleven, and everyone there formed gangs of some sort or another. It was just like being back at school." Sherlock nodded. "I didn't like school." John had wondered about Sherlock's life before he had met him, and he had gotten the impression that Sherlock had spent quite a bit of his childhood on his own. He was still rather isolated in his personality, even now as an adult, but the reasons to that had been shrouded in a kind of haze of the past that couldn't be touched unless Sherlock allowed it to be. "The only reason I got off the streets and off the cocaine was because of Mycroft." Sherlock stated, "It took him a while, but he tracked me down and shoved me into a rehab facility. I didn't get a choice, but I'm glad I did it because it gave me the opportunity to do what I'm doing now."

"And you decide to keep in touch with them?" John was staring at Sherlock, aware that in this decision he had made to involve the community that he had lived among he had displayed an enormous amount of generosity and care. Despite his insistence that he didn't have friends, Sherlock's range of acquaintances was much bigger than he would want to admit.

"They see and hear things that most people don't. They're more useful than the police in locating sources and finding information; most of them trust me too – cause they've known that I was once one of them and I'm not about to turn them in over anything. And it's a chance for them to earn money… Which, contrary to popular belief, isn't getting blown on smack or booze. Most of them are destitute because of the government systems, and believe me that's something I've raised with Mycroft enough times…" John couldn't help a smile crossing his face and he shook his head ever so slightly. "What?" Sherlock asked frowning.

"So, in a roundabout way, you're still looking out for the people on your patch? Still making sure that they're not dead, that they can get a bit of money by doing menial tasks that they would probably fulfil in their everyday life anyway?" John commented and Sherlock appeared puzzled.

"I haven't thought about it like that. I guess I have, but they give more to me than I ever give to them – I need them as much as I need you."

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter will be called: _"And Fat People's Lives."_**


	7. And Fat People's Lives

**A/N: This is about Mycroft as a teenager and his (maybe not so strange) relationship with food. This chapter contains reference to Eating Disorders, and may be trigger- if that's the case, please keep yourself safe! Thanks to all who have reviewed/favourited! Enjoy!**

* * *

**And Fat People's Lives.**

_Mmrrlgff._

_ 'Oh please shut up!'_ All the muscles in Mycroft's body tensed as his stomach growled for the sixth and loudest time. _'Oh god, please, stop it.' _He internally wished, he was almost positive that his dorm mate must have heard his stomach rumbling repeatedly since they went to bed. _'Why did I choose to do this? It was such a bad idea… oh yeah, I __need __to do this!' _Mycroft reminded himself firmly, just as a small whine issued itself feebly from his stomach again. _'I __need__ to lose weight…'_

"How's the diet going Mycroft?" Sherlock jibed, a grin painted across his face as he sat opposite Mycroft, who had folded his arms tightly across his chest.

"Fine." Mycroft glared at his twelve year old brother and glued his jaw together in annoyance. Mycroft was five weeks into his first semester at university and he had decided to visit home for the weekend – completely forgetting that the second week in October was a mid-term break for the schools – which meant that Sherlock was also at home.

Mycroft had been on a self-imposed diet from the time he had been fourteen; and since then his weight had fluctuated up and down almost as regularly as the sun rose and set each day. Mummy had been very helpful at first when Mycroft announced that he wanted to lose weight, but then as he bounced up and down on the scales she had tired with the project; believing Mycroft wasn't committed enough to his goal. What she was completely oblivious to was the cycle of hell that Mycroft's life was morphing into…

The jibes had been the instigator – Mycroft had never been an overly athletic child; he had settled on educating his mind rather than training his body. The result of this mental workout was that his academia was years ahead of his age, but he was definitely carrying around a bit of extra weight… Puppy fat people described it as, hanging around unwanted. He wasn't the quickest to hit puberty out of the boys at school, and some of them picked up on this, using it as a means to tease Mycroft – so subsequently it became a fixation of Mycroft's.

Despite knowing the sensible information about eating more healthily and moving a bit more in order to lose weight, thoughts began to circulate inside his head. Thoughts that told him that his diet was never going to work, that there was only one way to do what he was trying to achieve. The thoughts had whispered at first: _'There is a way to do this, but you need to let me take control – I can help you'_; _'I will give you what you want, I will make everything better'_; _'I will make you thin'_.

At first Mycroft ignored these thoughts, but when he had been on his "healthy" diet for nearly three months and lost a pitiful total of 4lbs he began to get annoyed. He was primarily annoyed with himself – convinced that it must be something wrong with him that was causing _nothing _to happen – and the thoughts became stronger. So finally he succumbed to their influence, and no food passed his lips. The first few days were the toughest – his stomach rumbled constantly, he had an empty ache in his abdomen; but the thoughts reminded him that those feelings meant that it was working. The proof came when he stepped on the scales on the Saturday morning – and could hardly trust his own eyes. 4.8lbs down, in one week – he had lost more in one week than he had done in three months on the last diet…

The decision was solidified in his head: this method worked, this would make everything better. The first month the system worked wonders – he lost another 12lbs, but it had not gone unnoticed. His dorm mate was the first person that Mycroft became aware of suspecting something, and then a few of his teachers – especially the form master took a peculiarly sharp interest in him. All of which made him more conscious of everything, and made him redouble his efforts to put across no outward signs of anything being wrong. He had been working so hard, he didn't want to be found out – not when he was doing so well… His dislike for people and company increased over the next couple of months, he was aware and suspicious of everyone – no matter their status or closeness to him. He became more insular, only wishing to spend his time on school work and trying to lose weight, nothing else mattered. If he could be thin then a whole realm of new possibilities would open for him.

But this new diet had only worked for about three months, then his weight began to plateau and nothing he tried – not exercising more, or refusing point blank to eat anything at all – budged more than a couple of grams from his weight. Yet again he was plunged into doubt, and was consumed by feelings at having failed at the most simplest of tasks… He had tried so hard, and done so well up until now, but the hunger and emptiness that he had become accustomed to feeling so constantly threatened to take over. All Mycroft could think about was food: about his favourite food and about the food he wasn't allowed to eat. Thinking about how foods looked and imagining the taste and texture of them in his mouth became a guilty pleasure to Mycroft; he felt like he was cheating the diet if he could pretend to eat a lemon meringue pie inside his mind. It never came close enough to the real thing though…

He would never forget the first night when things took a radical change that would impact him for the rest of his life. It was a Thursday evening and the debating society he usually went to had been cancelled due to illness, so he had returned to his dorm to be reminded that his dorm mate was at fencing club and would be for several more hours. Mycroft had lain down on his bed and tried to think of something he could do to take his mind off his growling stomach. At last he had been overwhelmed by the desire for food, and he didn't even recall leaving the school until he was in the little corner shop located two minutes from the entrance of the school. He had never bought so much junk in his life – chocolate, crisps and cakes; all of the foods that were completely forbidden to him. He had started eating even before he had reached the school again: savouring the taste of the chocolate as it passed his lips. But by the time he was back in his room, sat on top of his bed, the flavour or texture of anything didn't matter – he was just shoving it into his mouth as fast as he could. He was _starving, _literally starving – his body crying out for any kind of nutrient; and now he was putting it in faster than it could cope with… He ate until he could almost feel the food in his oesophagus, he was so full… And grotesque.

He had let himself down… He had given into that stupid urge; the same urge that had caused him to be fat in the first place, which had given those boys licence to pick on him in the first place. He had stumbled, in a state of mental unconsciousness, into the bathroom and vomited violently. He hadn't wanted to throw up – it had just happened outwith his control, but as he emerged shakily from the bathroom he felt better. Not just better in a physical sense from not feeling so full, but a weight felt as though the inevitability of gaining weight from this episode had been removed… It didn't then impress upon him that he had just binged and purged for the first time; and that it was going to become a common event. If he ate then made himself throw up then he still got to enjoy the taste of food, but then didn't have to worry so much about gaining weight as a result. It was the _perfect _solution.

It _was_ the perfect solution – until it began to take hold; a repulsive cycle of binging and purging, which had wormed its way into Mycroft's psyche and now wouldn't let him go.

A year and a half later Mycroft felt that he had gained a bit more control over his "diet", its occurrence and strength would ebb and flow like the tide… Sometimes he was capable of eating normally without concern, but other times he would resort to purging everything he ate – whether it had been a meal or binge. He was skilled at what he was doing; he knew the perfect ways to make himself sick, and how to keep others from finding out… This version of his diet maybe hadn't allowed him to loose masses of weight, but he had been able to regulate it in his own way.

It was in this manner that he had progressed all through high school, right up until now – five weeks into his first semester – but he no longer had the same opinion and view of this "diet" as he had done when he was fourteen. He knew now that he was stuck… Trapped by the cycle of bulimia. And at nineteen, the back of his teeth were decaying because of the years of acid hitting against them, his hair had thinned and begun to fall out; and he knew the only way to get out of this cycle was to ask for help… But in the years striving for the perfect weight, the perfect size, the perfect _life _– he had lost all of who he really was.

Mycroft looked across at his younger smirking brother, unstuck his jaw, then sighed heavily.

"Actually…" He started weakly, sucking in a breath. "It's _not _fine…"

* * *

**A/N: The next installment is entitled: _Stories of Living._**


	8. Of Living

**A/N: John and his relationship with his mum... sorry it's rather short. **

* * *

**Stories Of Living**

"Just two more steps… that's it, just one more." John had a firm grip of his mother's wrist and the crook of her elbow was wrapped around the back of his neck; he was holding her upright and attempting, in a rather ungainly manner, to get her up the staircase. "That's it mum. Last step, then you can go to sleep." John used an extra bit of strength and almost lifted his paralytic mother up the last step of the stairs. Her feet shuffled in an uncoordinated gait as she leant fully on her fifteen year old son for support. "That's it, well done…" He panted from the effort he was having to put in.

"Hmmmmph?" His mother blearily opened her eyes and struggled to focus on anything around her, including John. "Johnny!" She slurred in a highly surprised voice, as though she hadn't realised he was there up to that point. "You're a good – hic – good boy Johnny!"

"Yeah mum, it's bed time." John replied routinely.

"R-really?! Whoaa, t'days gone super fast!" She giggled as though this was the most hilarious thing in the world. John pushed his mother, still giggling, on top of the covers on her bed; and began the common occurrence of having to undress his mother and put her into bed.

For nearly every other fifteen year old this was something that they could not comprehend – having to return home from school after a full day of classes to then look after an alcoholic mother. John would arrive home and normally have to help his mum up the stairs, undress her and put her to bed – being conscious never to let her lie on her back in case she was sick and aspirated. Once that was done, John would sort out things for his younger sister: food, washing, housework. Then he would focus on his own school work, normally by the time he actually settled down to homework it would be after ten o'clock at night. He never got to bed before midnight and he would be up again at six to get Harriet ready for school and make her lunch… It was nothing near the typical life of a fifteen year old.

John checked in again on his mum after he had put Harriet to bed, she was curled up under her bed clothes and snoring slightly. At least he knew she was definitely breathing.

His mother had been wasting away slowly in front of his own eyes for the past three years, ever since his dad had left. John didn't feel like it was right to _blame _him, but he couldn't help but harbour some animosity towards him for leaving them in this mess.

Very slowly he watched the fight and life drain out of his mother as though it had poured through her eyes. After the break up she had lost her job, and then she had started to drink to fill the time that she would have normally spent at work… She became less and less interested in the world around her; less and less interested in her own children. She didn't have a life anymore – the drink had sucked it all out of her. She had disintegrated into a wreck, completely different from the independent woman who she used to be, the one that John had grown up with. She didn't like to leave the house anymore, she rarely washed without much prompting and nearly all of the money she received from the benefit system was spent on copious amounts of cider and vodka. It wasn't life; it was mere existence for the sake of it.

John could hardly wait to get away from it. He couldn't wait to grab control of his own life by the handles and be completely in control of where he was steering. The thought of being free from the regimented existence of his current day to day situation – in which he took responsibility as carer for his mother, and parent for his sister – made the future seem a little bit more bearable.

* * *

**A/N: Next installment will be entitled: _Stories of Dying._**


	9. Of Dying

**A/N: When John arrives back from Afghanistan, this is what happened before he met Sherlock. References to suicide, could be triggering- please keep yourself safe! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Stories of Dying**

_'So hard the fight can be to face,_

_Your mind will tell you it shall never be won._

_The darkness may blind and the weight crush you with its embrace,_

_Don't give up til the battle is done.'_

_T'clack! T'clack! T'clack!_

Something was rattling in the hallway next to John's room and he was vaguely aware of it in his psyche, but it was not a pressing bother on his mind. The clicking had blended smoothly with the memory that was replaying in horrific technicolour in John's mind as though it was actually occurring right before his eyes. Memories, flashes, triggers and pain. Asleep or awake, neither mattered because it followed him everywhere, and haunted and ripped at him. If only that bullet had been three more inches to the left then he wouldn't be having to live through this agony... How he wished that bullet had penetrated his heart and cut away his whole life. Being dead sounded like a dream in comparison to the ghostly life that he was now existing through... He wouldn't have to fill the dull ache and guilt that was inside of him if that bullet had been to the left. He wouldn't have to now go about in a world in which he no longer had a proper place, if that bullet had been to the left. If only... that bullet could have solved everything by being three inches further across. Instead it had left a broken picture... The glass was cracked, but he wished it had been shattered fully.

The return to civilian life was jarring; even more so than usual because John hadn't wanted to leave. He was still a soldier, he wasn't ready to go back to being a civilian – he still wanted to be out there tending to the injured and looking after the sick, but that bullet had changed everything and taken away his choice. He didn't want to be in a box-sized one bedroom flat in the east side of London. He didn't want the crushing pain that afflicted his shoulder, and refracted through the rest of his body. He didn't want to use that cane. He wanted to be in Afghanistan – doing his job, saving and protecting lives. It was the essence of who he was... Dr. Watson was a soldier.

Life as a civilian was a monotonous one. Every single aspect of it seemed to bring an annoyance to John, at every turn it seemed that something reminded him of a situation of warfare... and one that he could have had some way of intervening to a good end. It was completely pointless, the whole charade that he was affecting. He was a lone man, with only a drunken sister for relatives; with no real hopes of obtaining a job, frequent appointments with his therapist because of recurrent memories of Afghanistan which were a result of apparent Post Traumatic Stress Disorder... He had no friends, no one to call upon, no reason to stay alive. These thoughts dogged his mind continually – if he could not be a soldier then he was good for nothing else, he was stripped of everything that made him a man; of everything that kept him alive.

He had been in London for only a month and a half living out this non-existence; and it was now too much for him to ever imagine a recovery from the state he was living in. He could not cope with it for another day: he desired it to end, immediately.

He lay awake on his bed, staring upwards and recounting flashes of happier times with his mates in the battalions. He was so numb that they hardly made a dent on the firm blackness that had settled upon his mind – if even those did not serve to make him feel a little more worthy then nothing ever would. It was time for this to end. Never in his life had he expected to come to a situation where he would contemplate suicide, but as he swung his legs round the edge of the bed and placed them on the wooden floorboards it was the only option that he could possibly consider... He wished that bullet had torn through his heart rather than his shoulder; there was no dishonour in death on the battlefield. The dishonour would come from his death in a small cardboard-box of a flat in London, away from the fighting. But Harriet didn't have enough in her brain to feel the dishonour that it would cause, the alcohol had made it impossible for her mind to focus or function for more than a couple of seconds. She wouldn't miss him, it would hardly impact her.

He had a list – from the top to the bottom of ways in which he could make it end. He had his gun, but that would mean staring into the trigger of the gun as he unloaded the barrel into his forehead. Was he brave enough to do that? Or there was the stack of pills – he had been saving a supply of cocodamol. If he dosed himself with them and with enough paracetamol and whisky then he might just achieve what he wanted... It would be like falling asleep, just permanently.

His foot dragged slightly across the floorboards, bearing as a constant reminder as to why this was the only viable option left, as he crossed the room to the desk. Pulling the drawer open he located and lined up on his desk the twelve cocodamol tablets and an entire packet of paracetamol, then he proceeded to pour his best whisky into his glass and fill a pint glass with water. If these were to be his last moments then he wanted them to be as ordered and precise as they deserved to be.

He slammed down the pint glass onto his desk top and took a shuddering breath. It was done. Now all that was left was to wait and the results would come finally. Whisky glass in one hand, he limped back across the room and perched upon the edge of the bed; at least he didn't have to worry about pain any more. He didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone, or being a burden. As he felt himself relaxing, as his breathing smoothed out and his eyelids became so heavy that he could not force them apart any longer, he was reminded of the mates he had lost before... George, Darren and Mikey. He was going to join them, that's all this was – a journey to them. Although they had disembarked trying to save others, or maintaining the hold for civilians; John had followed because he was no longer able to do those things. He couldn't keep his eyelids open any longer, he had slumped back into the mattress of his bed and was no longer aware of the _'T'clack' _noise, or that it had been getting steadily louder.

"John? Dr. Watson?"

Bright, blurred flashes of light swum in front of John's eyes in a hazy, disconsolate manner. There was a firm grip of hands on his shoulders, causing immediate pain in his right shoulder where the bullet had penetrated, and was conscious that he was on his side resting on a hard surface. Pain like he couldn't believe was firing through every nerve and cell in his body; he was barely aware of the people around him or what they were doing to him. If this was where you went after death, then John suddenly wished he could be back. He had a vague awareness of being lifted and carried, and he remembered being in a paroxysm of pain and wasn't quite sure whether he had vomited or imagined feeling like he had.

It could have been twenty minutes, or it could have been hours but the first thing that he was able to truly feel was something on his hand. His head was pounding in a reoccurring rhythm, and the world around him felt soft. He was in a bed, but not his own bed – and all around him was white. Prising his eyes open he was in a hospital room, with a very dilapidated looking but sober Harriet beside his bed, and his therapist at the end of the bed. The expressions on their faces were of pity, horror and worry – it was clear that they knew what he had just done.

He had failed.

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be entitled: _Ways We Can Deal With Our Fear. _**


	10. Ways We Can Deal With Our Fear

**A/N: So this is a little bit OOC I think, but it was the only thing that I could think of that is kind of funny! I really loved writing it, so I hope you enjoy reading it! I wouldn't mind if you let me know what you think (it would be helpful actually!) :) **

* * *

**Ways We Can Deal With Our Fear.**

A high pitch shriek was omitted from the kitchen which made Dr. John Watson look up from the medical journal he had been deeply immersed in. The cry was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass, an indicator that whatever the reason for Sherlock to shout out like that had also caused him to drop at least one of his test tubes… John rolled his eyes, not making any movement from the chair in his bedroom which he was comfortably settled in. No doubt Sherlock was now raging at himself for dropping a test tube and ruining the results of a whole day's work… Maybe he had caught his hand on the side of the cabinet handle again, or brushed his hand through the Bunsen flame forgetting that the liquid in the test tube was highly flammable. There were several options that could result in the scream and dropping of glass, none of which particularly merited John's interest – for that reason he turned his attention back to the paragraph of the article he had been reading.

"John!" Sherlock's voice called up from the floor below, but it was dissimilar to the normally strong voice of Sherlock. The strangled tone caused John to rouse from his concentration immediately. "Jo-ohn!" The call came for a second time, with a distinguishable break in Sherlock's voice – it perturbed John so much that he placed down his book and made his way down the stairs to find out the reason of Sherlock's vociferation.

Upon entering the kitchen where Sherlock had set out his makeshift lab, John was confronted with one of the most unusual sights he had ever witnessed. Sherlock was perched precariously upon the bar stool he used whilst doing his experiments, his feet on the seat and his hands gripped to the edges so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"What?" John asked, surveying the peculiarity of the scene with a smile on his face.

"I saw a – a rat." Sherlock replied, his voice wobbling as he swallowed visibly. John stared at the detective with a touch of astonishment.

"I'm sorry… what?" He inquired, unable to take in the situation without laughing.

"There is a _rat _in the room!" Sherlock repeated, placing particular stress upon the word 'rat'.

"So?" John asked shrugging nonchalantly, feeling a tiny bit annoyed at Sherlock having dragged him down from his room away from his revision.

"It's a fucking rat!" Sherlock replied as though this explained everything. "Can you get rid of it?" He glanced around into each of the corners of the room trying to locate it.

"Are you actually serious Sherlock? It'll have run away into its hole because it saw you!" John exclaimed, but Sherlock seemed to refuse to let his grip on the stool go.

"I…" He started then stopped abruptly and took a shuddering gasp in. "I don't like rats." John stared at Sherlock, completely agog for a few seconds. From the very uncomfortable expression on Sherlock's face, John could tell that he wasn't joking around.

"You use them all the time when you're doing experiments!" John pointed out.

"I use _mice_… Tiny little white lab-bred _mice!_" Sherlock refuted, his breathing was rather erratic now and he appeared to be forcing his knees to stop shaking. "Please John?" He pleaded. John shook his head slightly and, suppressing a smile, bent down onto his hands and knees and began examining the skirting board of the kitchen to see if there were any signs of a rat.

"Why don't you like rats anyway?" John asked, trying to sound as though he wasn't purposely prying into Sherlock's private business.

"I just don't." He answered curtly. "Mycroft played a trick on me when I was six and… I've just never liked them since!" His voice sounded far away as he remained on top of the stool. John felt slightly stupid as he made his way around the kitchen floor on his hands and knees, tapping at the skirting board to try and find any hollow spots where a rodent sized creature might be able to reside in.

"Fair enough – ah!" As John was moving towards the corner of the kitchen something had caught his eye. There was a very slim break in the skirting board that looked like it could be slid back.

"What?! What is it?" Sherlock cried as John made a noise that heralded his finding something.

"I think, I've found something." John got to his feet and looked at Sherlock, whose eyes looked like saucers because they were so wide and his pale face had turned colour of slightly off milk.

"Wh – what are you going to do?" He stammered.

"Do we still have the rubber gloves?" John asked, Sherlock unhooked one hand from the edge of the stool and pointed mutely towards the sink; John strode over and picked them up.

"J-John?" Sherlock watched as John pulled the rubber gloves onto his hands. "John! What are you doing!"

John paused in the back of bending back down close to the gap in the skirting board; "I intend to reach my hand in, grab its tail and yank it out of there."

"And then do what with it?!" He breathed.

"Throw it out the window… Will you open the window for me?"

"But!" Sherlock started and was cut off.

"What Sherlock?" John put his hand on his hip, Sherlock quelled under the stare that John was giving him.

"Do I… have to hold the window open?" Sherlock seemed to be very slowly moving from the top of the stool.

"It would be very handy, yes." John agreed.

The crack in the sideboard was just big enough for John to reach his hand into; luckily the rat didn't seem to have moved any further into the hole and was resting with its back to the opening. This meant that it wasn't too difficult for John to slide his hand in and very quickly he had secured his grip around the tail of the animal – which began to screech and struggle against this force which was pulling it out of its home so unceremoniously. Holding the writhing beast at arm's length, John headed straight for the small window that Sherlock was holding open to dispose of the creature. But as John came within two feet of Sherlock the presence of a live rat became too much for the detective, as he let out a high pitch squeal and let go of the window, flapping his hands in a disturbed manner. There was just enough time for John to throw the animal out of the window before it slammed shut; and then he turned to Sherlock. He was about to reprimand Sherlock for letting the window slam shut until he saw Sherlock's face; it was incredibly pale and he was breathing heavily whilst leaning on the counter behind him.

"Sherlock?" He removed his rubber gloves and dropped them into the rubbish bin. "Sherlock, are you alright?" Sherlock shook his head briefly, still taking rather deep breaths.

"I really… _really_ don't like rats." He answered, shuddering. "Uh… I feel a bit sick." He certainly looked it so John poured water into a glass that had been resting on the draining board and handed it to Sherlock, his hand was trembling as he took it. "Sorry…" He mumbled.

"It's alright," John said reassuringly, resting his hand upon Sherlock's upper arm. "I'll fill in the gap in the skirting board tomorrow morning so that we don't get any other unwelcome visitors."

"Thanks." A fragile smile passed over Sherlock's face. "It's stupid, I know… IT's just a bit bigger than a mouse, but even still-" He shuddered once more, seemingly trying to throw off the shaken feeling that it was clear he was experiencing.

"Everyone is afraid of something…" John replied with a smile.

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be called:_ Stories of Horses_**


	11. Of Horses

******A/N: Hope you're enjoying these random (slightly rambling) one shots! Here is another one for your delight! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Stories Of Horses.**

"We had a couple of acres to ourselves when I was growing up." Sherlock stated rather plainly as John and him were scrambling – or more precisely as Sherlock was striding and John was scrambling – up a gravel path towards the large stone farm house which lay at the summit of this small hill, this was their destination. John and Sherlock were in a rural area of East Sussex, but not for the investigation of a case – for the very opposite reason… As Sherlock had gained prominence in his field and acquired recognition from the organised police force and other organisations more and more cases had been thrown his way, until he was almost overloaded with work. During work upon cases, Sherlock refused food – claiming that digestion slowed his brain down, he slept in snatches and devoted hours upon hours to intense mental concentration… all of which, after a considerable amount of cases each following on from the last, had led to him pushing his body to the very extremes of which it was capable. The moment in which Sherlock had fainted, for the second time, in the middle of a very public place – John had forbade him from taking on a fresh case after he had solved the one that he had been working on; commanding that he was going to go away for a few days and let his strength regain. Sherlock had argued, but John's determination was not going to budge and he had been forced to give in. It was mainly John's medical capacity that was insisting on this rest for Sherlock, as his friend appeared to be teetering on the edge of physical exhaustion and, although he would not want to admit it, nervous collapse. One of John's old army mates had a holiday cottage in East Sussex that he had been able to acquire for a week, and the moment that the case in London was finished he and Sherlock had been on the next train headed for a couple of days outside the swarm of London. The first day and a half were perfectly fine, Sherlock seemed content to sit in the cottage living room by the merrily cracking fire and not having to use any effort (mental or physical) to do anything. The presence of three ashtrays located in separate rooms in the cottage had led to Sherlock coming to the conclusion that he could smoke in here. Since then John had convinced Sherlock to accompany him on a walk through the nearby woods, which Sherlock then hijacked and turned into a scientific walk, spouting numerous facts about the foliage all around them. John insisted that over the next few days they stuck purely to activities which would allow Sherlock to recuperate… He was very surprised, then, to find out that Sherlock had booked them _both _a couple of hours riding with the horses from the farm less than a kilometre from the cottage. It was a bit of a surprise, but Sherlock had insisted that he desperately wanted to do this – saying that he hadn't ridden in ages. "My father used to keep horses, Mycroft and I learnt to ride while I was a kid I rode while I was at university also, but I haven't had any time since setting up as a detective to get to do it."

"Right," John panted slightly, feeling as though he was getting a rare insight into what Sherlock had done while he was younger. "So when was the last time that you rode?"

"Nearly five years ago." Sherlock answered, reaching the brow of the little hill and effortlessly scaling a wooden turnstile, dropping down on the other side.

"You sure you'll remember everything?" John asked. The sun was beating down on the back of his neck – it just so happened to be one of the hottest days of late summer, and the workout he was having to endure to reach the horses in the first place was reminding him unpleasantly of Afghanistan.

"Of course!" Sherlock breezed, "What is there to forget?" He seemed to scoff John's questioning as to whether he would still be able to ride.

Sherlock introduced himself cordially to the short woman who greeted John and himself at the farm gate.

"Sherlock Holmes, right?" She asked, sticking out a firm hand to shake Sherlock's with. "Booked out George and Tinny for a couple of hours?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied firmly. She eyed the two of us up and down, the look on her face clearly saying 'city boys'.

"You know how to ride?" She questioned abruptly.

"Grew up with horses." Sherlock quipped.

"I did a bit of riding in my army training." John told her, though he was growing steadily more anxious about getting back up on a horse – it had been a long time since he had done it the first time, and he had only had extremely brief training.

"Military man are you?" She asked, again casting an eye over John.

"Was." John said quietly.

"Right, well George and Tinny are in the closest stable there, they're all saddled and bridled up for you. You're free to take them into the paddock or to go further afield with them." With that she turned on her heels and marched off back to the house.

George and Tinny were two very fine stallions; George was pure ebony and Tinny was mottled grey and white all over, except from his back right leg which was completely brown. John mounted Tinny, who he was riding, and was instantly aware that he was very high up. It took a few minutes – in which Sherlock decided where they were going – before John fully felt comfortable on top of the horse.

They left the comfort of the paddock and trotted the horses along the country road leading away from the farm; John was amused to notice that Sherlock's horse, George, seemed to be putting up a bit of a fight against Sherlock's reigns… And once or twice his face gave the impression that he had lost control altogether,

It was several hours later when they arrived back at the farm, the sky was just beginning to turn towards evening and Sherlock was reaching the end of his tether… It seemed that either the horse was playing up, or that he couldn't remember all of his riding from when he was young. It had to be the former, Sherlock insisted in a very grumpy manner as he dismounted from the horse. John followed suit, resting his hand thankfully upon Tinny's neck, before he heard a voice call out from behind him.

` "You, yeah you – short one." John spun round to see the owner of the farm approaching them; he was feeling rather disgruntled at having just been called 'short'. "You're a natural! Have you done much riding?" John flustered in surprise at this pronouncement as he was not at all the skilled rider that Sherlock apparently was.

"Uh, no… Not really, just a couple of days when I first signed up." John replied rather sheepishly, sensing Sherlock's desire to swiftly leave the current situation.

"Really? I've never seen Tinny take to someone so well before – you should look into riding more!" She exclaimed patting Tinny's hind affectionately.

"I might do that." John said, trying not to laugh at the scowl on Sherlock's face…

"Oh what are you scowling about?" John asked, as they descended the gravel path. Sherlock had shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and had the deepest frown he could muster set into his features.

"Nothing." He answered shortly but the scowl didn't lift from his face.

"Sherlock, seriously – I don't want to have to put up with one of your moods all night." John probed further. "If something's annoying you just come out with it."

"I thought you couldn't ride." He said rather grumpily.

"I can't really – I've only had some basic training." John replied honestly. "Sherlock, are you annoyed at that woman commenting on my riding rather than yours? God Sherlock, you can't be brilliant at _everything._" John barked, slightly annoyed with Sherlock's churlish behaviour.

"I know that…" Sherlock's tone was higher pitched than usual, like he was admitting to something he didn't want to believe. "But I never expected you to beat me at horse riding."

"It just shows, you never can tell what a person is good at!"

* * *

**A./N: The next installment will be entitled: _Parental Divorces._**


	12. Parental Divorces

**A/N: Child/Teen John... just a little bit about John's situation in growing up. If you're reading these it would be nice to know whether you think I'm wasting my time, or if they're decent enough to keep going. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Parental Divorces.**

"You're not taking them!" The scream reverberated around the whole of the house and the sound of a plate or another piece of crockery being launched across the room and hitting the wall. "Clear off, get out of here! You're not taking John and Harriet! Over my dead fucking body will you ever take them away from me! Fuck off!" Five year old Harriet wrapped her arm around her stuffed elephant, burying her face deep into her cuddly toy and cowering back into her older brother's arms.

"It's for the best Carolyn! The courts will agree with me, but I'd hoped we wouldn't have to take it that far!" John could hear his father's voice, raised but steady.

"Agree with you? _Agree with you!? _Now you're fucking deluded! I won't have some madman looking after my kids!" There was another sound of something else smashing and Harriet twitched again, startled by the noise.

"We'll see about that." There was the sound of footsteps moving quickly towards the staircase then proceeded up it. John's dad entered the room where both Harriet and John were huddled together' he was a tall, broad man with a firm military step like the soldier that John knew he had been. He bent down in front of his kids, a gentle smile present on his pleasant face and he put his hand tenderly on Harriet's knee.

"Alright Harri?" He spoke very quietly.

"I don't like it when you and mummy fight." She whispered, clutching her elephant even tighter to her chest than she had been doing before.

"I know Harri; it won't be for much longer, I promise. You know mummy and I love you very much" He answered, giving her a small hug. "You too Johnny." He ruffled John's hair affectionately. "Be a good boy for mummy. I'll see you both very soon." He got up to leave, an effigy of sadness painted across his face, and the children heard his feet receding down the stairs and then the front door slammed.

"And _stay out!_" Their mother's voice screeched.

They had been arguing for a long time now; it felt like for as long as John could remember they had been at each other's throats, and despite insistence from both of them that it wouldn't last much longer, it didn't look like it was going to end any time soon.

Just as John and Harriet started back at school it seemed that their parents had reached the last straw and their dad left. He had moved into a house on the other side of town and since that point he and John's mother had been arguing about visitation rights. John's mother insisted that when he walked out on her he had also walked out on his kids, which meant he had no right to see them, but he thought very differently... Carolyn hadn't coped very well with the break up, and it wasn't difficult for the nine year old John to notice that she had been drinking every night since his dad left.

It was a Tuesday two weeks after that argument when John and Harriet got out of school that they were met at the school gates by their dad. This was a surprise for them both – one that they were delighted about after not seeing him for a while.

"Hiya Harri, alright Johnny?" He greeted them both with a hug each. "You're coming home with me tonight, you're going to be living with me from now on." He took hold of Harriet's hand.

"But what about mummy?" She asked as he led them away from the school gates.

"You'll be staying with mummy at weekends." He told them. "Don't worry, you'll still get to see her."

The next six months were the best in John's memory of his childhood... The courts had granted his dad, James Watson, full custody of both of his children – with their mother to see them every weekend. James was a retired soldier who had gone into accounting when he had come out of the army; he was firm with discipline, but he doted upon his children. John and Harriet's relationship with their mother improved in this time also... when she was only getting to see John and Harriet from a Friday night to a Sunday night she seemed to have decided that all time should be quality time with them – where as before she had spent most evenings drinking and ignoring their existence. But then it all went wrong.

John and Harriet were both called out of class to find their mum, very pale and shaky looking, waiting for them at the school reception. She bundled them out of the school and explained, in a broken voice, that their dad had been taken ill and was in hospital. She tried to tell them, with the emotion strangling her voice, that he was very poorly and might look a bit strange – but she wanted them to see him just in case something happened. They arrived at the hospital to find out they were too late...

After those happy months with his father it ended in the most horrific day that John could remember. His dad had had a second heart attack in the hospital, and despite the best efforts of the doctors and nurses, he had gone.

They moved back in with their mum, but their dad's death had hit her hard even though the two of them hadn't been a couple at the time. Gone was the mum that they had grown accustomed to over the past few months, and back was the drinker who spent every night with her face buried in a bottle.

As John grew up he knew that he couldn't blame anyone for his parents separation, or for his father's death. That didn't stop him feeling like if his parents hadn't fought so much then maybe his father wouldn't have been under so much stress and his heart might not have given out... And maybe his mum wouldn't have drowned herself in alcohol for the rest of her life after. But there was no knowing if things would have turned out any different. They were done, and John had to live with that.

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be called: _Heart. _**


	13. Heart

******A/N: John is the Heart of the Duo... but it doesn't stop him from wondering what it would be like if he was different. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Heart**

"I don't know how it doesn't bother you…" John said, speaking aloud after a long time of considered thought. Sherlock Holmes looked up from the article about chemical bonding that he had been closely studying and stared at his friend who was seated in his armchair.

"Why on _earth _would it bother me?" Sherlock asked sounding perturbed.

"But that's the point exactly – the fact that it doesn't even cross your mind that you should be bothered is so strange! Haven't you thought about it in the past, or – I don't know… Have you always just not cared?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered simply, though a frown had crossed his brow, John seemed completely baffled by this answer and he shook his head slightly whilst pushing himself up in his armchair.

"But how… When – I mean…" John flustered attempting to pull together the rush of questions that had flooded into his brain all at the one time, but he while they were still mapping in his neurons he stared at his friend in a very blank, misunderstanding manner.

"John, I don't at all feel that my not caring about other people has any bearing upon my cases." Sherlock stated very plainly. "Not caring what the personal outcome of a client is allows me to think logically about every aspect of the problem and not mar it with sentimentality." John sighed heavily; he could understand what Sherlock was saying: his distinct lack of human attachments allowed him to be totally ambivalent to all desired outcomes for any motivated party. But that stance created massive problems to John… How could any person go through life without a single inkling of feeling of compassion and loyalty to another person? How was that even possible? And if Sherlock did fit so completely into that category then was it true that he felt nothing towards the friendship that lay between himself and John. "Is that a problem for you John?" He asked in a slightly perfunctory tone; John stared ahead of him, collecting his thoughts into a proper order. The silence gathered in between them as John contemplated the mere thought of being able to just not care. What would it feel like to have such a completely emotionally devoid life towards absolutely everyone around him?

It would probably be an improvement – not having to constantly worry about Harry or Sherlock, or any of his patients that displayed unusual symptoms, or just _anyone. _He wondered whether he would have been a better army doctor if he had been able to cut through the concern and just get straight to the point of assessing and saving the people that he was meant to be saving… Or would it have disconnected him from the situation, would he have not felt any motivation to try and help those people if he didn't care. The thought of not having to worry about Harry had practically sold the thought of not having emotions; his life would have probably gone down a different route if he didn't feel for the people around him… Maybe he would have been sat where Sherlock was now? John had relaxed back into his armchair, turning his phone over and over rather absent mindedly in his hands, and not realising that Sherlock was keenly observing him. "No John." John looked up at Sherlock in some amazement at how he seemed to have read his very thoughts. "You would not suit this temperament one bit."

"In what way?" John asked, very suddenly bristled by this assertion that something wouldn't suit him.

"Because…" Sherlock started authoritatively and then tailed off into silence; for one of the very rare moments in his time living with Sherlock, John seemed to have completely stumped him for words. John looked at him as he was trying to connect a sentence in his brain, but what he came out with was not at all what John expected him to. "Your heart is your most generous and bountiful resource John."

"I'm… I'm sorry – what?" John stammered in confusion, Sherlock sighed.

"You wouldn't suit being cold or not caring," Sherlock answered. "You've got this… this immense amount of compassion and genuine warmth for everyone, even people we only briefly encounter. When we're on cases and we're dealing with a death my mind jumps to the science, to observation and deduction – but you… you instantly think of their humanity… You think about their mother, or their father, their siblings, their child, or their partner – you _care _about the essence of what makes a person human. You are so… so essentially human, and that is what makes you immeasurably invaluable. If you… If you were like, well – like me, and didn't care about everyone then you wouldn't be half the man you are now."

John stared at Sherlock in a stunned silence because of this reply. He hadn't expected for one second for Sherlock to compliment the fact that he thought about everyone before himself and that he went out of his way to look after other people. He had always kind of expected that Sherlock might consider his empathy and his heartfelt compassion for others as a weakness rather than his best strength.

"I… Thanks Sherlock, that means a lot… it _really _does."

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be entitled: _Of Illness._**


	14. Of Illness

******A/N: I'm thinking of branching out into a sick fic after writing this one! Tell me what you think! Enjoy! :)**

* * *

**Of Illness. **

This case had been rung through late; Lestrade had been dealing with the first incident by himself – but when the second body was found he appeared to feel out of his depth and therefore requested Sherlock's assistance. His phone call had been brief, requesting Sherlock's help and giving the address of where he could be found, finishing by imploring Sherlock to come as quickly as he could.

The October air had a thick chill set into it, the approaching season of winter seemed to have decided to make itself present prematurely, and the breath of everyone out in the street was blowing out in great white puffs of steam from their mouths. Sherlock had yanked his coat and scarf around him and beckoned John to follow him out into the street, where he hailed a cab, giving the driver the address and climbed in. There was something not right though… Sherlock was always rejuvenated with nervous energy when he was given the promise of a fresh case that sounded interesting, but he was shuffling about in his seat in the taxi. He tugged at his scarf as though it was restricting air from getting into his lungs, then slid back the window of the cab allowing a sharp blast of cold air to flood into the taxi.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" John asked, trying not to sound as though he was prying, or overly concerned – that would only piss Sherlock off.

"Of course I am." He snapped waspishly, adjusting his scarf once more but making no real change to its position. "Lestrade could have given us a bit more notice before he wanted us to run to his aid, that's all."

"Yes, if only Lestrade could prearrange with a murderer of whom he knows nothing about that they kill people on our timetable it would be heaven." John muttered under his breath, but he noticed that there wasn't the usual sarky Sherlock undertone in his quip about Lestrade. Out of the corner of his eye John tried to watch Sherlock; he was still fidgeting restlessly, first fiddling with his scarf, then with the top button of his coat and then with the sliding catch of the window. There was something not right, but asking about it again so close to his initial questioning would infuriate Sherlock. As the streetlamps rushed past the light deflected down inside the cab of the car – Sherlock's ivory skin was slightly flushed, his cheeks had a tinge of pink and there was even a barely visible sheen of perspiration upon his forehead.

As the taxi drew up to the address that Lestrade had provided them with, Sherlock leapt out of the car almost before it had stopped moving. Sergeant Donovan was manning the outside of the three story house that they had drawn up outside of, and she wasted no time in making her presence known.

"Lestrade's on the second floor, freak." She said. "Not sure you'll be able to help at all with this one." Sherlock completely ignored her, that was singular… Sherlock _always _had to have the last word, even if it meant drawing out a personal comment, but he said nothing and ducked under the police tape and proceeded up the seven stairs which led to the front door of the house. The forensic team were milling about inside the tight hallway, all in plastic suits to prevent them from spreading any unwanted DNA into the crime scene.

"Where's Lestrade?" John asked one of the suited up people, though he didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock. John had come to the medical conclusion that something wasn't right. Sherlock looked ill – he looked fevered, but Sherlock being Sherlock he wasn't going to admit if anything was wrong. He thought himself as superhuman and that nothing could affect his titanium constitution. We were directed to the third floor, in a top attic room Lestrade was standing outside the door. He demanded that everyone left the room before leading John and Sherlock inside.

"Young male, we don't think this is his house, but he was strung up by the right ankle." Lestrade said. The young man had been cut down and was now lying on the floor – the frayed rope still attached round his ankle with purple-blue bruises spreading out from where it was tied like a bizarre pattern. The young man's face was down onto the carpeted floor – and all the blood had drained into his head, causing his face to be purple and red. Sherlock had bent down a foot from the body and John saw his eyes raking over every inch of the man, observing and forming links and conclusions like he normally did.

"Twenty-one years old, part time painter and decorator, studying to be an architect at university." Sherlock reeled off, crouching right down onto his knees to get a look at the young mans' face. "He'd been at the gym within half an hour before being killed… He used to smoke, but has given up recently because he intends to ask his girlfriend to marry him and she doesn't approve." There was something slightly sluggish about the manner in which Sherlock was speaking; John noticed it because he lived with Sherlock but Lestrade seemed oblivious. "He's dead about two days." Sherlock said, as though this was an easy thing to pick up on, standing up from the side of the corpse.

"It's suspected two days, yes." Lestrade nodded, looking rather flabbergasted at how readily Sherlock had pulled out a whole string of information just by looking at the dead man. "Any clues as to who we should be looking for?"

There was an incredibly long silence – the length of it caused both John and Lestrade to turn and stare at Sherlock. Sherlock was pale – but not just the ivory colour that he usually was, he was a milky, deadish white with a red rouge flushed across his cheekbones. He swallowed visibly and then spoke:

"You need to find out what gym he goes to…" Sherlock trailed off, his eyes were wide like he had just had a revelation and he suddenly turned on his heels and practically fled from the room. Lestrade looked at John with one eyebrow raised, they were both accustomed to Sherlock linking some bizarre fact and running off to chase it, but that was always accompanied by wild exclamations that generally insulted everyone and made no sense to anyone but Sherlock.

"Is he alright? He looks a bit… odd." Lestrade asked, breaking the silence between the two of them.

"He says he's alright, but I think he's ill…" John answered, "But the both of us know what Sherlock is like - he's not going to admit to anything until his leg falls off, or he passes out."

"That's true." Lestrade nodded.

"I should go and find him; I'll try and bring him back if he's just decided to go for a cigarette or something." John told him and headed towards the door.

"Do me a favour – if you think he's ill, take him home. He's no use to me if he's ill and not thinking straight. Tell him to get better, then I'll get in touch."

"Right, I will do. Thanks Greg." John pushed past the people still in the halfway and came face to face with Sergeant Donovan at the door. "Which way did Sherlock go?" John asked abruptly.

"He's run off again –" She started, but John wasn't in the mood for her games.

"I don't care as long as you tell me which way he went." John interrupted.

"He turned that corner there. He looked a bit strange…" John was already rushing in the direction that she had pointed and didn't hear the end of her sentence.

About one hundred yards from the front of the house that John had exited, there was a side alley which turned up in between the houses and two streetlights were throwing a dim yellow blur onto the path. Sherlock was standing halfway up this alley, leaning against the wall dependently; John noticed as he approached that about a foot further down from where Sherlock was leaning there was a pool of vomit. The clear evidence added to Sherlock's pale complexion, his erratic breathing and the fact he seemed to be struggling to remain upright, all added to the conclusion that John was right; Sherlock was ill.

"Sherlock?" John said calmly as he approached him. "Sherlock, come on – I'm taking you home." He gripped Sherlock's upper arm so as to support him.

"No… no, I have to go back – the case." Sherlock argued weakly, but he sounded as dreadful as he looked.

"Lestrade says I've to take you home and you can call him when you're feeling better. I'm taking you home, you're in no fit state to be out." John commanded, Sherlock took a few shaky steps with the aid of John's arm for support. "Why didn't you say anything? You must have been feeling ill for a while."

"I thought I'd eaten too quickly or something – it was just a stomach ache, I thought it would pass." He replied, seemingly gaining a little more strength and leaning less heavily on John. "I'll be fine, I promise – I feel better now. I can go back and see Lestrade now."

"You look like you're running a temperature and you've just been sick, I doubt Lestrade would want you back into a crime scene that can't be contaminated. I'm taking you home." John insisted again.

"Okay." Sherlock said very quietly, it wasn't worth arguing about… And he felt like he could really do with a seat, or his bed even.

"Do you feel up to riding in a taxi? Or do you want to sit down for a bit?" John asked, despite Sherlock's loosened grip he could feel him trembling through the material of his coat.

"I'll be fine in a taxi." Sherlock replied firmly.

"Alright, but if you start to feel in the slightest bit sick, you tell me instantly, okay?" Sherlock nodded. "You promise?"

"Yes." He said as John halted a passing taxi, and helping Sherlock inside, instructing the driver to take them to Baker Street. John could see that the driver was eyeing Sherlock suspiciously so he glared back at the guy and slid back the windows. Sherlock rested his head against the metal strip between the two windows and closing his eyes as the wind rushing through the open glass ruffled his hair. He raised his hand up to his face and wiped his brow. They were only a street away from Baker Street when Sherlock took a deep breath in.

"Sherlock, you alright?" John asked, keeping his voice low so as to not alert the taxi driver that anything was wrong.

"Yeah… Yeah…" Sherlock muttered, "Just – just a little queasy…"

"We're just two seconds from home, just hold on." John said rather panicky just as the taxi turned into Baker Street. "Just here, thanks." John said to the driver, who pulled over to the side of the road. Sherlock practically flung himself out of the door while John paid the driver and latched himself onto the railings outside the main door of flat 221B. John unlocked the door with his key and then put his arm carefully around Sherlock's waist so he could support him inside. "God Sherlock, you should have told me earlier that you were feeling sick!" John said, slightly frustrated. "I could have done something to help before now…" Sherlock proceeded up the staircase rather unsteadily, holding tightly onto the handrail.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled as they reached the top of the staircase.

"Go into the sitting room, sit down and I'll get you some water." John said, pushing Sherlock slightly in the direction of the sitting room. John filled up a glass of water in the kitchen, but when he proceeded through to the sitting room Sherlock was not there. His coat and scarf lay discarded over the arm of the sofa, but there was no sign of their owner. He laid down the water and went in search of Sherlock; he found him in the small toilet on the same floor. "There you are." He sighed in some relief, wedging himself into the bathroom and crouching down so he was on the same level as Sherlock who was kneeling next to the toilet. "Are you still feeling nauseous?" Sherlock was sheet white with a hint of green now and he was swallowing rapidly, he nodded slightly as a reply. John stretched out his hand and placed it on Sherlock's forehead so as to ascertain his temperature; Sherlock squirmed away from John's cold hand. "You're running a high temperature, I think you've got a virus." Sherlock made a strangulated whimpering noise very unlike his usual self, and he instantly looked much younger than the thirty four year old he actually was. The hand that wasn't clinging onto the side of the toilet was rested on his abdomen.

"Is there –" He tried to speak, but his voice was thin. "Anything I can do to make it better?"

"I'm sorry Sherlock." John shook his head. "You'll just have to wait it out." Sherlock groaned; he was gulping even more now and John suspected he was fighting the urge to vomit again. "Don't fight it Sherlock, you might feel better if you just let it take its course." Sherlock tried to glare at John, but he just looked piteous. He heeded John's words, however, as the moment John saw him stop swallowing every second and took a deep breath, he jerked forwards and vomited. John felt suddenly awkward, he wasn't sure quite how to comfort Sherlock – being overly affectionate was rather abhorrent to Sherlock and John had no way of telling if that would change when he was ill. When Sherlock leant back he was trembling violently and he wiped his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve rather haphazardly. "I'll get you a change of clothes. Stay here until I get back." John dashed up the staircase and grabbed the first clothes he could find in Sherlock's room, but by the time he was retreating down the stairs he could hear Sherlock throwing up once more. For a split second he wondered whether he should phone for an ambulance, but he trusted his medical judgement – if Sherlock didn't improve in a couple of hours then he would call for an ambulance. "Here we go Sherlock, I've got something clean clothes for you… do you want any help getting changed?" Sherlock had propped himself up against the wall of the bathroom and he shook his head; even despite Sherlock's refusal for help John stood in the doorway of the bathroom as Sherlock undressed himself with shaky hands and pulled the t-shirt over his head.

"I'm sorry." He uttered finally, his voice no stronger than it had been before.

"Don't be sorry and don't be silly. I'm a doctor and I'm your friend." John replied firmly, bending down again. "Do you think you're feeling up to moving? You can lie down on the sofa in the sitting room."

"Okay." He gripped the hand that John was proffering and clambered to his feet. He leant rather heavily on John as he was a little wobbly on his feet, but as they got out of the bathroom into the halfway he halted suddenly. "Dizzy…" He muttered, John doubled his grip on Sherlock just as the man went as limp as a rag doll. John was able, employing the strength he had gained from his time in the army, to scoop Sherlock up so he was carrying him. Sherlock was lighter than John had expected and it did not pose John any problems to carry him into the sitting room and lay him on the sofa. Sherlock stirred and opened his eyes blearily; John helped prop him up a bit and brought the glass of water to his lips.

"Take a sip Sherlock; it should make you feel a bit better." John explained gently, helping him to take a drink. Sherlock lay back down once he had taken a drink, John searched around the room until he procured a waste paper bin which he placed at the edge of the sofa. "Use that bucket if you feel sick." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and let out a sigh. "If you're feeling a little better in a few hours I'll give you some paracetamol – I don't want to risk it just now in case you throw them up." John sat down in his armchair, positioning himself so he could see Sherlock in case of any emergency and allowed a silence to fill the room. Sherlock had closed his eyes, he was still a worrying colour and his temperature had not abated or broken yet, and he appeared to go to sleep.

It was maybe half an hour or more later that Sherlock took to regain the ability of speech again.

"John…?" His voice was slightly hoarse; John looked up instantly from the book he had picked up to read. "I didn't mean to – I… thank you…"

"It's alright Sherlock. I wish you had told me earlier that you were feeling unwell; I _am _a doctor after all and you're not superhuman. But you need to rest now, let yourself heal."

"No, but – I mean it, thank you." Sherlock repeated. "You've not looked after me because you're a doctor, you've done it because I'm your friend… and you're… you're my best friend."

It was unusual for Sherlock to display this kind of outward emotion, but John didn't have the time to reply before Sherlock had closed his eyes and his breathing evened out until he fell asleep.

* * *

**A/N: the next installment will be entitled: _Songs of Improving_**


	15. Songs Of Improving

**A/N: I can't believe how quickly these are coming out! I hope you enjoy this one! **

* * *

**Songs of Improving.**

"Aargh!" John hit the music stand in front of him, which he instantly regretted as soon as a sharp pain throbbed through his fingers. "F sharp!" He reminded himself in an annoyed growl. "F sharp John!" He sighed as he picked up the pencil which was lying on the music stand to mark in a reminder onto the sheet of notation paper. It had been too long since he had played his clarinet last, and now he was ruing the day that he had stopped playing when he went to university. He had never been virtuosic on it or anywhere near the kind of standard that Sherlock was on his violin, but he was competent and had a level of proficiency that had allowed him to play in several orchestras while he had been in high school. That felt like a lifetime ago now he was trying to practise again… His fingers had vaguely fallen back into place once he had given it a little bit of thought, but accidentals still threw a spin on his brain.

_'D, E, D, A, G, F sharp.' _He halted again as his fingers fumbled to remember the key for F sharp. He knew once he had mastered the basics again that this piece shouldn't pose _too_ much of a problem, but right now it seemed almost an insurmountable challenge. His current desire was to throw the sheet of music across the room. If this had just been any old piece he would have probably chucked it in the bin by now and resigned himself to the knowledge that his abilities on the clarinet were now extinct. But as he raised the mouth piece to his lips he reminded himself why he was torturing himself over this specific piece of music. The title of the piece alone was enough to convince him to attempt this particularly tricky phrase for what felt like the thousandth time:

_'For JW, from SH x'_

The title made John's heart rise so high that it felt like it was in his mouth and he felt giddy. To know that Sherlock had spent time – weeks he had said – composing a piece of music that both of them could play meant the world to John.

He had been experiencing feelings that were definitely more than just friendship for Sherlock for quite some time, but he had been incredibly reluctant to expose those feelings to Sherlock… He had gotten the impression that Sherlock would have ignored him completely out of discomfort if he had told him… But after one late, and very drunk, night fumble, everything had changed between the two of them. At first the idea of a relationship with anyone and the connotations that came along with it absolutely terrified Sherlock… But when he came to the realisation that John and he still had the same kind of relationship as before – now with the added bonus of sex – he accepted it. He was still the same Sherlock Holmes, and John was still the same John Watson – but now the two of them shared a deeper, much more soulful connection which added to everything they did. They had been in a relationship for over a year now, and it had touched John that Sherlock had given him something incredibly personal for their anniversary. For that reason, he was going to work as hard as he possibly could to get this piece right and be able to play it with Sherlock. It was more than just music to John…

John was an impatient man – and when he felt that he wasn't showing improvement quick enough he became infuriated at himself. There were bursts when he would be so angered at the music itself that he struggled to look at it. But he was always calmed himself down eventually and got back to practising those bars in which he struggled most.

On two separate occasions while John was practising by himself in his room, he could hear the solitary strings of Sherlock's violin – ringing out pure soft notes throughout the entire flat. And when he heard Sherlock playing he wondered whether _he _was practising his part so they could play together.

It took John a long time to get anywhere near a decent standard that he could have enough nerve to play in front of Sherlock. The first time that he felt like he was progressing any he had made the small step of leaving his bedroom door open while he practised. With the knowledge that Sherlock could potentially hear every note that he got wrong and he panicked, making double as many mistakes as he had been previously… But it built his confidence, Sherlock wouldn't think any less of him because he made a couple of mistakes – it would show that he was trying.

Sherlock loved hearing the sound of John playing his clarinet. John had repeated categorically that it was a long time ago since he had last placed and that he was useless in comparison to Sherlock; but Sherlock disagreed hugely… John had a particularly light touch on the notes, there was a depth and quality of his pitch that not many musicians managed to achieve. It gave Sherlock chills to hear John practising the piece that he had written for them; he desperately wanted to play it with John, but he didn't want to push John into doing anything before he was ready. So he waited, as patiently as he could, for John to approach him.

It was over a month before John plucked up the courage to speak to Sherlock about the piece, and maybe that they should play together. When he did bring the subject up, Sherlock seemed pleased – there was a look in his grinning face that totally gave away his desire to play with John.

The final act for John to convince himself that he was going to play along with Sherlock was him bringing his music stand down from his bedroom into the sitting room – and it felt like a massive step as he manoeuvred the legs of the stand into the room through the narrow door. And now they were both standing in the same room – John clutching his clarinet with a rather sweaty hand and Sherlock with his violin proper up on his shoulder already.

"Let's just give it a try…" John suggested, wishing that he could have been back upstairs in his bedroom with the door shut again. Sherlock allowed John to lead the pace, but he was stumbling over his own notes in listening to John… John really was utterly amazing; the amount of effort that he had put in on making this piece perfect – Sherlock had been listening to him improving every day and could hardly believe how good he had gotten. The expression on his face as he concentrated deeply on the music in front of him, made Sherlock just want to throw down his violin and wrap his arms around John. They reached the end of the piece and Sherlock could hardly contain himself; he placed his violin gently on the seat of his armchair – his breath was catching in his chest because John had just proved how fantastic he was. John was biting his bottom lip looking rather nervous and his eyes were focused on the metal rim of the music stand. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the clarinet that John was still holding tightly and prised it out of John's grip, laying it on the table next to them. He wrapped his arms around John's waist and pulled him towards him, their lips meeting in a kiss.

"You are wonderful." Sherlock whispered when they parted. "I love you."

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be entitled: _Everyone Talks About Change_**


	16. Everyone talks about Change

******A/N: I've not much to say, but enjoy! :)**

* * *

**Everyone Talks About Change**

John sighed heavily and shuffled the sheets of paper aimlessly around on the table in front of him.

_ 'Only one more until payday…' _John thought inwardly, as he was assessing his finances and wondering how on earth he would make it through the next week. _'Good god, I need that money…' _ John had been working in a surgery as a locum, but it wasn't the most reliable of jobs; the pittance he received from the army barely covered his rent and he really needed a job that could provide some stability for himself. He had been throwing the idea of applying for a permanent job in one of the nearby surgeries – but it would mean giving up solving cases with Sherlock to listen to patients moaning on about blocked noses and runny eyes and all that rubbish. Everything would turn into monotony; and he would be stuck in a job that he hated with a passion up until the end of his working life. It would regress into what it had been before he had met Sherlock… Waking up, getting through the day, going to bed, sleeping. Sherlock had revitalised his life, he had brought colour and depth into his day to day being again. Giving that up just to have a steady income was a big forfeit… it was a sacrifice that he didn't want to have to make, but in the end it was inevitable. He had desperately attempted to look at this situation and arrange his pay slips and account balances into any which way that would prevent him from having to go for a permanent position somewhere.

"What are you doing John?" Sherlock's voice floated out from behind where John was sitting and the detective came slouching into view, clad in one of his dressing gowns. Sherlock had been irritably restless over the past few days – mainly because they didn't have an on-going case at this moment – but his engaging in conversation would indicate that he was in a better mood than he had been earlier.

"Trying to convince myself that I don't need to apply for a permanent position in a surgery." John replied with a sigh. "In vain I may add…"

"Why do you need to look for a permanent job?" Sherlock asked airily, seating himself on the opposite side of the table to John and half glancing over the piles of crumpled paper.

"Because I need the money!" John laughed slightly; Sherlock was the most astute being that John had ever met, yet the matters of finance and other menial subjects were uninteresting to him.

"No you don't… I've got money." Sherlock's reply was an indignant one, he looked as though he was highly affronted with what John had just said.

"But Sherlock, I've got my portion of the rent to pay, and other things to cover also – my army pay doesn't stretch that far." John told him, collecting up his papers and stacking them neatly in a pile before him. "And it's not as though our cases pay very well."

"No but I have enough money to cover those things myself."

"Sherlock, you can't pay _my _part of the rent – I moved in so we could share the cost of this place." John had a fair amount of pride that, despite Sherlock's insistence that he could afford, wasn't covered by someone else taking them on.

"I don't see why not." Sherlock suddenly sounded like a petulant child, and the thought crossed John's mind that perhaps the idea of John getting a full time job and being unable to answer every single one of Sherlock's whims so readily made the detective unhappy at this decision.

"What would happen if something happened to you? If on a case – I don't know – you got into trouble or something and didn't come back?" John put forth quickly, trying to justify his reasons besides pride for needing a job.

"Then you'd still have this place." Sherlock said firmly. "And you'd receive half of an estate and a considerable amount of money." John's eyebrows had drawn down in confusion at Sherlock's reply, so Sherlock expanded to make things clear: "You're my next of kin." John stared at Sherlock in utter disbelief for a few seconds.

"I'm your what?" John exclaimed.

"My next of kin." Sherlock repeated as though saying it again would make everything crystal clear. "So if I snuff it, you'll be next in line to get all of my stuff."

"Why would you…? What about Mycroft?" John had started irrationally and then brought in the thought of Sherlock's elder brother.

"Ttschk!" Sherlock made a disconsolate noise. "Mycroft's already got enough rubbish! Besides I'd rather it all go to you."

"But… Why Sherlock?" John asked, honestly in total confusion as to why Sherlock would have signed to make him his next of kin. "People don't usually sign a next of kin change until they're getting married or have been in a relationship for years, or something like that!" John felt like he had been thrown headlong into a whirlpool about the whole thing.

"And?" Sherlock shrugged. "Why are you surprised at that? I get along with you better than I get along with anyone else I know…"

"And you think that's enough to make me your next of kin?" John stood up from the table and gathered all of his papers into his arms.

"Well why not!" Sherlock now appeared to be as equally confused as John was about the subject matter.

"How can you not see how weird that is?" Sherlock just shrugged in response; John shook his head and took a bundle of paper up to his own room. He sighed again as he shook his head at what he could see in the absurdity of Sherlock making him his next of kin. John couldn't ever remember who his next of kin was – it was probably still his army officer; he should maybe look into that. And as he dropped the pile of paper his heart made a jolt in his chest. John had commented that changing to someone to be their next of kin was normally something that people did when they were in a committed relationship or about to get married: maybe that was what Sherlock was proposing… John stared at his feet, frozen to the spot, wondering whether he was jumping to the wrong conclusion. But how the hell was he supposed to find out without asking Sherlock?

Sherlock was still sitting at the side of the table and was still sitting at the side of the table and was drumming his fingertips rapidly on the table top.

"Sherlock?" John started slowly, and was slightly put off by Sherlock giving a rather coarse grunt as an acknowledgement that he was listening. "Were you…" John felt rather awkward in trying to think how he should word what he wanted to say. "When I said that most people don't change their next of kin until they're in a committed relationship… Were you – hinting at something?" Sherlock stopped drumming his fingers and looked directly at John.

"Like?"

"No, nothing – it doesn't matter." John dismissed the thought instantly as he saw the blank look on Sherlock's face.

"If you are asking about our "relationship" then I believe you may be onto something. Very perceptive John!" John ignored the last derogatory comment.

"So, what about our relationship? We're… we're friends." John stumbled unsurely.

"You don't want us to be _more _than that?" John stared at Sherlock in utter dumbfoundment.

"Like… like a proper relationship?" John inquired, sounding as though he could hardly believe his ears. "As in… boyfriends?"

"Well, neither of us is a girl." Sherlock pointed out the obvious, rather more bluntly than he usually did. "So yes."

"I – well… I – uh – I…" John spluttered.

"Is that something you'd want?" Sherlock posed this huge question as though he was asking about the weather.

"I – well, yes… if you're sure you're fine with it." John finally managed to get coherent words into an answer.

"Good." A small smile twitched across Sherlock's face. "Me too."

* * *

**A/N: The Next installment will be entitled: _Stories of Stillness, of People not moving._**


	17. Of Stillness, of People Not Moving

**A/N: I can imagine John getting rather frustrated in a relationship with Sherlock, so this is what I imagine an argument might be a little bit like! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Of Stillness, Of People Not Moving.**

"The only part of our relationship that ever varies is sex!" John shouted, not bothering to lower his voice even with the sensitivity of the subject. The argument had been going on a week now – Sherlock wasn't even sure what had been the initial starter of it, but he could see now that whatever it was, John was furious about it.

"What do you want by variety?! I don't get what you want me to do!" Sherlock retorted rather annoyed at this slight that Sherlock appeared to be making about his antics in the bedroom.

"You don't talk… you don't _ever _talk!" John said angrily, flinging his hands up into the air in an exasperated gesture.

"On the contrary, you're normally the person telling me to shut up." Sherlock's face was marred into an expression of complete and utter confusion. It hadn't occurred to him that he would need to "talk" to John about anything other than the stuff he normally spoke to him about, but apparently he had been very wrong with this…

"Not about stuff like this! Not about _us!" _John insisted. "If we don't talk about us, then eventually we'll just crumble into nothing and one of us will end up resenting the other… and I doubt that would be you!" John had purposely put a distance of about three feet in between Sherlock and himself so as to re-emphasize that what he was saying couldn't just be brushed aside by a sudden display of physical affection. John sighed as the perplexed look on Sherlock's face deepened; it was clear that all the norms of a relationship were still foreign to Sherlock, despite the fact that they had been going out for over a year and a half. John sank into a chair and looked up at Sherlock, who was still standing rather stiffly in the curve of the bay window. "I don't want us to fall apart, I _really _want us to work… but I need you to communicate with me for this to keep working… I _need _you to talk to me."

"I don't want us to end, but I thought we were doing fine as it is… I'm not exactly sure what you want me to talk about?" Sherlock replied eventually; John stared in silence at him for a long while and Sherlock shifted his weight uneasily from his left to his right foot.

"Just… Just anything to do with us Sherlock! Whether you think we should take on the next case together, or whether the two of us should go away on a holiday… Or what you think about our future?" John told him, but he trailed off towards the end of the sentence looking down at his feet.

"Our future..? You want to talk about the future?" Sherlock questioned in some surprise. "About… about…" He struggled to come up with something. "Oh god, I'm not good at this sort of thing John!" He ruffled his hands through his curled hair and turned away to look out of the window.

"Do… do you not think we have a future?" John's voice cracked as he asked this question.

"That's not what I mean." Sherlock spun around. "Of course I think we have a future! Of course I want us to do things – I just… if something's not broken, why tamper around with it so it needs more fixing?"

"So, we don't need to talk because so far our relationship has lasted?" John felt like shaking his head, but he knew that Sherlock was actually putting in an ounce of effort here and he didn't want to discourage that. "I need you to talk to me, I want you to tell me what you're thinking and feeling… because I feel out on a limb here! The only time that I ever get a reaction from you is when we're fucking and I… I need more than that if this is going to keep going!"

"I… uh… I… uh…" John had rarely experienced Sherlock speechless before, and this time it shocked him even more than it had ever done before.

"Sherlock, all you need to do is speak, not all the time – just every so often let me know what you think is good, what you think is bad, what you want to do next… I want to know so I can be fully involved in us. I'm not asking because I want to know every single little thing inside your head, I just want enough insight for our relationship to last further. Do you get me?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered, but his voice still hinted at uncertainty. "So like, if it's not broken we can still make it a little better?"

"Yeah, exactly."

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be entitled: _Throwing Out Books When Things Turn Out Too Strange._**


	18. Throwing Out Books

******A/N: Sherlock is fairly pathetic when it comes to tidying! Enjoy! :D**

* * *

**Throwing Out Books When Things Turn Out Too Strange.**

John had accepted from the moment that he had moved into flat 221B that it was a mess… Sherlock had his own unique system of filing, which usually meant things were left littered all over the floor, or stacked in piles, or placed in cupboards, normally where they weren't supposed to be. John wasn't an overly tidy man – his time in the army had disciplined his mind for a while, but back out in civilian life he didn't care so much if everything was in its right place. However, Sherlock's complete inability to put anything in _any _kind of recognisable order tested John's patience. The final straw had been when John had tripped over a pile of books that had been stacked on one of the stairs and made him fall down the rest of the stairs, he had then demanded that Sherlock was going to help him clean the whole flat up, otherwise he wasn't going to help on any more of the cases. Sherlock hadn't liked this idea at all; since then he had sat doing nothing while John had attempted to tidy the place up.

"Anything but the books." Sherlock hadn't moved an inch from where he had been sitting in his armchair, but John froze with his hand outstretched towards the line of obscure and very dusty books that lined the wall.

"Why not the books?" John asked.

"The books are different." Sherlock protested.

"No, the books are books… and we're cleaning everything, _including _the books." John told him firmly.

"The books are fine." He dropped his riding crop that he had been tapping gently upon the edge of the table leg.

"At least put them in order! Or subject relevance… or something rather than chucked in any which way!" John protested, picking up the book at the top of the pile. "RHS Encyclopaedia of Gardening? I mean, when will you ever need this?"

"I used it in the Milner-Walton case, being able to know where pollen is from." Sherlock replied calmly, John pursed his lips because he knew that Sherlock was correct on that occasion – just like he always seemed to be.

"Alright, this one… Fundamental Immunology." John lifted the second book from the pile.

"Helped when I consulted about the Cameron case and how his extremely resilient immune system led to him being resistant to the chemical he injected his victims with." Sherlock had begun tapping the leg of the table all over again.

"And this one? History of Western Music?" John picked up a leather bound copy of a musical journal.

"I like music…" He shrugged. "It also came in handy when Mrs. Walls claimed she had been at a Puccini opera, yet there was no way that Puccini would fit into the Baroque season that was on-going, thus rendering her alibi as completely false which proved she had to be at home when her husband died." John sighed very quietly. "How many more of these are we going to have to go through before you accept that I need these books, so I won't be getting rid of any of them?"

"Okay, I get you… but can you at least order them or sort them out a little bit to help, rather than just sitting there!" John succeeded defeat and replaced the books on top of the pile. "Just please… do _something!"_

John descended the staircase from his bedroom where he had been for several hours; half avoiding Sherlock and half tidying up his own, sparse, possessions. As he reached the bottom of the staircase he heard a thump, which was followed by a heavy sigh. Approaching the door of the sitting room he was confronted by Sherlock sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by mountain ranges of books. Sherlock looked up at John with a pitiful expression on his features.

"I need your help John," He said eventually, as though admitting defeat from the piles of literature that he sat among.

"Dear goodness Sherlock…" John exclaimed trying to pick his way through the high rise piles covering nearly every square foot of floor. "What _have _you been doing?!"

"I was trying to put them into subject relevance!" There was a slight whine in his voice which sounded like that of a child, "But I didn't know where to go from there…" He looked around helplessly.

"Well sitting in the middle of the floor staring at everything around you isn't going to help. Come on – on your feet, let's put this stuff away." John told him, offering out a hand to pull Sherlock to his feet. "We can put all these on the shelves and find other places for any that are left over… we can do it in alphabetical subject order." Sherlock had taken John's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, nearly dislodging a large pile which wobbled unnervingly.

They had reached the letter "L" before either of the two of them said anything other than about which subject should come next.

"Sherlock, thank you." John said, as he stacked books about Lepidoptera onto the shelf.

"For what?" Sherlock asked, handing him the next book – the title emblazoning the subject of it as _Leprosy _– and appearing a little confused.

"Because I asked you to do something, and you did. So… thank you." John explained.

"Oh… you're welcome." Sherlock replied, stepping over a book stack to reach another thick volume. "Does this mean you'll come out with me on cases again?" He asked quietly.

"Yes, of course." John smiled.

* * *

**A/N: The next installment will be entitled: _Music._**


	19. Music

******A/N: Sherlock loves his music, but he didn't always understand what it truly meant to channel music... Teen!lock. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Music.**

"No, no – stop Sherlock." Sherlock's private tutor, Mr. Dawson, commanded for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. Sherlock sighed and dropped the hand with his violin bow gripped in his fingers down to his side. He detested being stopped while playing, especially if Mr. Dawson was about to reiterate what he had said precisely thirty-six seconds ago. "You're not listening to a word I'm telling you!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Music isn't just a collection of quavers and crotchets Sherlock… You need to put life into it; it needs emotion and passion vibrating through the strings, singing through each note." Mr. Dawson was gesticulating with some force in Sherlock's direction. "In music it does not do just to play the notes perfectly. Technical ability is a large part, but you need the feelings to make the notes translate off the page." Sherlock was glaring at his tutor with a somewhat petulant eye. "You are a good violinist Sherlock, but you have the potential to be exceptional…"

"I'm trying." Sherlock retorted rather grumpily, focusing his eyes completely on Bach's Partita number 2 in D minor; Mr. Dawson sighed in exasperation.

"Alright… you can put your violin away now. But for your next lesson I want you to spend some time just focusing on a strong pure emotion, it doesn't matter what it is, and allow it to fill you up – and then try playing. Adding any kind of emotion to the notes will give them a depth that neither vibrato nor perfect pitch will achieve."

Sherlock desperately wanted to not believe that Mr. Dawson was correct about music needing more than just perfect timing and precision playing… What got to Sherlock most was the fact that he had the capability to be amazing – yet he fell down when it came to expression. Every single one of his exam papers from when he had started music gradings had said that: _'more expression needed'_, _'more dynamics'_, _'the pieces were technically played but need more expression'_. It was all Sherlock ever seemed to hear about in his lessons, and he was absolutely sick of it. Sometimes he wanted to give Mr. Dawson a rap around the head because of the time he spent going on about feelings and expressions. Expression couldn't be everything! There had to be a cut off point where emotion and technical ability merged – but Sherlock had heard about that too.

In his three years at the school he had managed to rise to the front desk of the violins in the orchestra, but he was still not in the lead – Jeremy was… Jeremy was also in the same year as Sherlock, not quite as technically able – even Mr. Dawson had admitted that – but he expressed himself through his playing. Sherlock had always considered Jeremy's playing rather mediocre – he would often not quite pitch a note perfectly or struggle with sight reading new music for the first time – but he did use his emotions. When playing solo his face would contort and then relax as what he was feeling and experiencing seemed to flow through his being like a liquid gold. Sherlock was frequently distracted by the way that Jeremy's whole body moved while he played, and several times Sherlock had to duck a stray bow when it nearly impaled him… How could that kind of playing be genuinely better than his own precise annotations and pure notes? Sherlock could feel his competitive side straining; he had to beat Jeremy, he had to prove that his playing could be far superior than the jumped up blob of emotions who sat next to him in the front desk…

But no matter how much effort Sherlock put into immersing himself in an emotion, he found it almost impossible to do it in connection with the music… The notes remained just black dots scrawled on a sheet of paper, completely unattached from any feeling that might be flowing through Sherlock's body. He spent an entire evening just staring at his score and trying to, in some way, decipher how he could add emotion to the piece.

Then suddenly it came to him – halfway through an English lesson in which they were studying the poetry and emotional connotations of Sylvia Plath. If he turned each bar of music into a set of poetry or prose, the notes comprising the rhythm and each phrase creating what would translate into a line, then it was possible that he might be able to add extra into the piece. He was delightfully surprised when the Bach's partita he was working on fit this method exactly… All through his lunch break he sat at a table, his pencil sandwiched in between his teeth and his fingers tapping out the rhythm, allowing his brain to formulate its own phrases which would correlate to a kind of inner poetry. Every now and then he would mark a small line to punctuate the score and scribble a few words above the music… It was just enough to get his mind firing.

"That's wonderful Sherlock!" Mr. Dawson gave a triumphant clap as Sherlock relaxed his grip around the neck of the violin and dropping his bow to his side. "You've done _exactly _what I told you to do! Well done; it is _superb!" _Sherlock's face twitched into a small smile as the praise poured forth from his tutor's lips; there was a certain warm glow which had ignited inside him as he knew that there was a different, more spiritual sound to his playing that had not been there before his idea with the prose lines. All he had to do was create a story line for the music that he could attach to the phrases. Once that was done and he had connected the two of them together, then he successfully managed to capture the essence of the music he was performing.

* * *

**A/N: The next (and last) installment will be entited: _Heart and Music Make a Song._**


	20. Heart & Music Make A Song

******A/N: I have come to the end of the song- and the end of this series of oneshots! So to round off and finish I give you- FLUFF! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Heart & Music Make a Song**

"You're… you're… you're… oh! I don't know what you are!" John mumbled without opening his eyes; his head was nestled in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder and he rested his arm across Sherlock's bare chest.

"Sublime?" Sherlock suggested a word that John might have been unable to find.

"Sublime, yeah." John nudged Sherlock playfully. "At least you know the level of your own skill." John opened his eyes rather sleepily and looked up into Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked perfectly calm, his face was relaxed into a smile as he stared down upon his boyfriend as he nuzzled gently into Sherlock's neck, relishing in the skin on skin contact and the faintly musky scent that seemed to be Sherlock's natural perfume.

"You're pretty spectacular as well, _doctor._" Sherlock emphasized John's title in a half joking manner. "Don't think I could have chosen better!"

"Huh!" John scoffed aloud. "Like you could have chosen at all!"

"What do you mean by that?!" Sherlock intimated in mock outrage, wriggling further away from John's arm that was across his chest.

"Oh come on Sherlock…who else do you actually _know?_ Your brother Mycroft, and Lestrade, oh and some of the people in your homeless network… but which one of them, if _any_, would have fallen for you…?" John replied, relinquishing his grip across Sherlock's chest and pushing himself further up in the bed so he was sitting.

"None of them I'm fairly sure… I was too busy waiting for you." Sherlock leant across and rested his lips on John's neck; John knew that Sherlock was trying to pacify him – and it was working… goose bumps had erupted all along John's skin and shivers had run down his spine, he brought his hand automatically up to rest in Sherlock's curly hair.

"Sherlock." John murmured and Sherlock paused in his action of running his lips along John's neck. "You had no idea that I would fall for you."

"Of course I knew!" Sherlock answered rather breathlessly, he had propped himself up on one arm so that he could get at a closer angle to John. "I'm a consulting detective, I spend my life watching people – you don't think I would miss something like that, do you?"

"Then… why didn't you say anything?" John asked, suddenly sounding serious. Sherlock pulled his face away from John's neck and studied his boyfriend's eyes.

"Because you weren't ready." He said simply. "I wanted to wait until you were comfortable, and that worked out fine."

"I suppose…" John agreed, he stared down towards the end of the bed for a second and then leant in towards Sherlock to kiss him properly. "Always the gentleman, aren't you Sherlock?"

"I try…" He whispered.

"I know, you do very well…" John agreed, he was stroking the skin near Sherlock's collar bone very tenderly. In a sudden swift movement Sherlock had straddled John's waist, his hands resting on John's chest as though declaring his ownership.

"I only try because you're more than worth it." He told John very assuredly, leaning down to resume kissing John again and the warmth of his chest creating a tingling sensation in John's own.

"I'm glad you think so…" John muttered, one of his hands cupping round the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer.

After a few seconds of blissful kissing Sherlock drew back – much to John's annoyance as he was enjoying this greatly.

"I love you John." Sherlock spoke firmly and genuinely, John's breath caught in his chest – he hadn't expected Sherlock to say that.

"I love you too." The words had come out in a natural reaction; and he pulled Sherlock closer to him again. It was like each one completed the other – there was something about Sherlock which made John feel alive, feel real; and there was something about John that made Sherlock better. Each one complimented the other – and neither wanted to be without the other… not now they had the feeling of what it meant to be whole…

* * *

**A/N: **** I hope you've enjoyed reading these as much as I've loved writing them! -SH x**


End file.
